


show me your soul (i'll show you mine)

by paperlesscrown



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Badass Feminist!Toni, Brief references to Choni, Brief references to Joavin, Businessman!Jughead, Escort!Betty, F/M, Literary references abound, Mild Angst, Mistaken Histories, Mutual Pining, New York AU, Penelope is a better parent, Positive sex worker discourse, Romantic Comedy Feels, Slow Burn, Soft Writer!Jughead, Subverted Pretty Woman AU, Undercover Journalist!Betty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-08-26 18:00:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 55,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16686421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperlesscrown/pseuds/paperlesscrown
Summary: Jughead Jones, Head of Publicity for Southside Motors, opens the door to Betty Cooper, an undercover journalist posing as an escort, on his first night in New York City.He’s craving an escape. She’s done with playing it safe.But the night doesn’t go as planned, and when Hemingway and cheeseburgers get thrown into the mix, Betty and Jughead fall deeper into each other than either of them had anticipated.***WINNER: BEST SLOW BURN, 4TH BUGHEAD FANFICTION AWARDS***





	1. the ruse

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work inspired by, but also subverting, "Pretty Woman" - that is, it explores the developing relationship between a businessman and an escort who shows up at his door. 
> 
> As a writer, I had to delve into some of the dynamics between sex worker and client - a relationship that is obviously fraught with questions about choice, class, gender equality, power, and so much more. What I chose to do was to explore sex work from the perspective that it has been chosen as a legitimate working profession, which allowed me to maintain the relationship dynamics between Betty and Jug that way I wanted it to. This discourse will be explored as the plot demands. 
> 
> Please take note of the tags. If this is not a story for you, that's okay. Please kindly close your browser, and have a good day. 
> 
> If you'd like to hang around - thank you. I'm so excited to start this journey with you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **ruse (n.)**
> 
> a ploy intended to deceive someone; a trick.

 

He wasn’t what she was expecting. A name like _Forsythe Pendleton Jones_ belonged to a three-piece suit, sober gold cufflinks, greying hair, tan line on his finger where he’d taken off his wedding ring. After all, someone who’d taken up the TriBeCa Penthouse at the Greenwich had to be just that - confident, smug and sure of his place in the world.

While the man who stood before her was wearing a suit, all similarities to the image Betty had built up in her head ended there.

For one, the suit was cut more fashionably, tighter to the body, the fabric a youthful grey houndstooth rather than an aged pinstripe. His tie was rumpled and hanging loosely around his neck, as if he’d pulled it off at the end of the day but was too exhausted to complete the act. Her sharp eyes spied a pair of suspenders underneath his blazer and, curiously, silver, crown-shaped cufflinks adorning his wrists. And as for his hair... well, if the situation at hand wasn’t so peculiar, she’d have asked him what conditioner he used for those luscious dark locks.

But perhaps most disarming of all was the panicked edge in his voice as he took her in - her loose, wavy blonde hair, dark red lips, sky-high stilettos, trench coat hanging open to reveal black satin and lace, with stay-up stockings skimming the top of her thighs.

“Oh. Shit. You’re early.” He ran his hand through his hair and looked past her into the empty elevator, which opened exclusively into the penthouse. “Sorry, I just wasn’t… I mean, god, sorry. Please. Come in.”

Betty was a little unnerved by his skittishness, but somehow she managed to make her way in without missing a beat. She took note of the room, which was undoubtedly luxurious and well-appointed, but surprisingly muted - bare wood, natural stone, neutral furnishings. It was a penthouse, sure, but it was more comfortable than gaudy.

She stepped into the middle of the room and shrugged off her coat, dropping it to the floor. His eyes widened as he regarded her - his Adam’s apple bobbing as he gulped visibly, looking her up and down. A swell of feminine pride bubbled in her chest - she _did_ look pretty incredible tonight. A smile painted her lips as she regarded his awestruck expression.

“So what did you want to do first, baby?” she purred.

The words were smooth, but her heart was pounding against her ribcage. She was gearing up for anything - a slow, prowling walk towards her before he pulled her in for a rough kiss, a voyeuristic plea to take photos, or, more likely for a man of his status, a quick sweep off her feet before he pinned her against the wall - a power play.

As it turned out, what she got was completely unexpected. He bent down to pick up her coat, holding it out to her. “Actually, uh, can you just… put this back on for now?”

“Oh.” That was a little deflating. She slipped into her coat, belting it tightly, feeling more naked than she had been just moments ago. “As you wish, Mr. Jones.”

“And please,” he implored, looking her in the eye, “call me Jughead.”

_…_

The _Lilith_ office was on the corner of 16th and 5th, a few streets away from Union Square Park. It was a more welcome, more glamorous space than the online magazine’s previous headquarters - a dreary industrial warehouse in East Flatbush, which was dank and shabby, and not even in a self-consciously chic, Brooklyn kind of way. The heavy frosted glass doors of their new office were emblazoned with the publication’s logo, flanked underneath by the name of their founder and editor-in-chief, Toni Topaz (who still refused to be called Antoinette).

Betty had been an intern with the magazine in her final year at Columbia. In between working as a barista and heading up _The Bronx Beat_ , she had little time to pursue internships (or, in fact, a social life). Much to her small town journalist mother’s disappointment, application season for the _New York Times,_ _Wall Street Journal_ and the _New Yorker_ all came and went during Betty’s final year at college, without Betty putting her name in.

“I’m just busy,” she’d always say, over crackly FaceTime sessions that always ended before her mother could ask about how she was _really_ doing, or get started on _is there a boy, Betty, is there someone_. And she really was. Busy, that is.

But beyond being busy, she reasoned with her mother that there was really no need to apply for internships, because she was already killing it at the _Beat,_ anyway.

(And, if she was being honest with herself, she was all too happy to stay in that lane. Because venturing out meant the possibility of being _run over._ )

Fate came knocking, however, when Toni headhunted her, she being a Columbia graduate herself who still made time to read the _Beat._ She’d read Betty’s weekly column - a cutting parody of Carrie Bradshaw’s articles on _Sex and the City_ \- and was thoroughly impressed, offering her a stint on _Lilith_ as an unpaid intern over a completely random, unsolicited email.

“With a view towards future full-time employment, of course,” Toni had added, before signing off.

Betty was reluctant at first, but was eventually worn down by Toni’s mix of motivational speech and hard bargaining. As promised, she was given a permanent spot on staff almost immediately after graduation. She worked her way up quickly, becoming News Editor in the short space of two years. She liked the magazine’s mix of cutting-edge journalism and low-brow interests (her best friend, Veronica Lodge, was in charge of Lifestyle and Celebrity), but most of all, she liked that the magazine was run entirely by women. There was safety in their camaraderie and sisterhood. Stability. No mess, no risk.

That, of course, didn’t mean that she wasn’t actually onboard with Toni’s principles, especially when defending them against her own friends.

“Can I just say, it really sucks that I can never work for _Lilith_ just because I’m not a _woman?_ ” whined Kevin Keller, an old buddy from Columbia, as they caught up over drinks. “Seriously, do you know how many gay men would kill to work for the so-called ‘ _Buzzfeed_ for feminists’?”

“Kevin, you work for _GQ,”_ Betty pointed out. “You’re surrounded by beautiful, well-dressed men everyday. Why are you even complaining?”

Kevin sighed. “It just feels a bit trite writing an article on the Top Ten Suits From the _Ocean’s 11_ series when you’ve got a journalism degree. You get to write the hard-hitting shit.”

“First of all, I wrote an editorial last week on why the Brazilian wax is over, so I don’t know about writing the so-called hard-hitting shit.”

“The Brazilian wax discourse is a _significant_ dialogue, Betty.”

She smacked him playfully. “Shut up. And besides, you _loved_ writing that article, Kev. You dragged me along for your movie marathon, and you couldn’t stop exclaiming over how hot Brad Pitt looked.” Kevin smiled dreamily at the memory. “And besides, how many all-female spaces can you name in magazine publication? From the board members right down to the maintenance staff?”

“Toni only hires _female_ maintenance staff? Holy shit.”

Betty nodded, relishing in Kevin’s incredulity. “She insists that the all-female approach from top to bottom preserves the integrity of our voice.”

“Jesus.” He took a sip of his martini. “I mean, no, that’s awesome. And super important.”

“Damn right it is.” Betty slammed down the rest of her drink. “Now, tell me more about work and whoever it is you’re crushing on at the moment.”

Kevin positively swooned at the segue and started gushing about his latest paramour at the office - Joaquin, the guy in charge of layout (“Or, as I like to call it, the guy who’ll be in charge of _my_ layout.” “Oh my god, Kev.” “Like, do you get how he’s _literally_ laying me out--” “YES, I GET IT”).

As for the long, complicated journey to Forsythe Jones (or Jughead, apparently) and the TriBeCa Penthouse, it all started at the table that occupied the centre of _Lilith’_ s pitch meeting - a labyrinth of open laptops, half-drunk coffees, handwritten notes and printed copies of their most recent issue. Everyone had their game face on. Veronica was peering seriously over her glasses while Toni leaned back, her eyes gazing at the ceiling, cascades of pink hair falling over the back of her chair.

“We need something that’s really going to blow this magazine up, get it referenced in like a million other websites,” Toni said. “We’re doing well, but I want to leave _Jezebel_ in the dust, you know?”

Betty smiled at that. Toni was unapologetically competitive. It also didn’t help that _Jezebel,_ their rival publication, was run by Ophelia Fogarty. Ophelia had dated Cheryl Blossom, Toni’s long-time partner, way back in college. It wasn’t necessarily jealousy that motivated Toni; Cheryl was hers through and through, and she knew that. She just liked winning, particularly when the victory was personal.

“So wait, we’re not going with that Roxane Gay profile that Betty wrote?” Veronica asked. “I thought you loved that one.”

“Roxane’s new book is coming out in a few months,” Toni replied with a sigh. “Her agent wants us to coordinate the article with the release. Which probably means a few rewrites, too. Sorry, Betty.”

“It’s okay,” Betty conceded. “It’s a solid article, but it’s not going to incinerate the world.”

“Excuse me,” Veronica interrupted indignantly. “But that article is amazing, Betty, don’t you go humble-bragging on us now.”

Toni sipped her kombucha. “Yeah, Betty. _You_ did the work. Own that profile. Enough with the humble-bragging - I want you to proud-brag the shit out of that.”

Betty rolled her eyes. “Alright, yes, that article _was_ great.”

Veronica beamed. “That’s my girl. Anyway, what are we replacing the profile with?”

“Well, that’s why we’re having this meeting,” Toni replied. “I need ideas, people. Come on. Hit me.”

Midge Klump, a writer that Toni had recently snatched from _Anthropologie,_ piped up. “We’ve got Valerie from the Pussycats posing in _Playboy’s_ latest issue. Which is interesting, considering that I didn’t even know _Playboy_ was still running.”

The table laughed. Betty leaned forward, suddenly interested, chewing on her pencil. “Didn’t she just do that amazing op-ed on intersectional feminism in _Teen Vogue_ recently?

“Yeah, that was her.”

“Hmm. So that’s a little curious then, posing for _Playboy,_ ” Betty said, as the table looked quietly at her. They knew to give her a wide berth when she was on an ideas streak. After all, she had spearheaded most of the publication’s most hard-hitting journalistic pieces. “Is it possible for girls to pose for _Playboy_ and still be a voice for equality? I thought raunch feminism was dead.”

“Is it?” Toni asked provocatively, with a smile.

“Well, the conversation has changed,” Veronica volunteered. “But I don’t think it’s dead _per se._ I think there are still multiple connections between sex and feminism that we haven’t resolved or explored at length.”

Betty jumped up in her seat. “Hey. You know who’d actually be good to ask about this? A sex worker.”

“See, now we’re talking.” Toni got off her seat and wrote ‘SEX WORKER PIECE’ on the whiteboard behind. “Also. Fun fact that none of you asked for but I’m gonna tell you anyway: Cheryl’s mom, Penelope? She used to be the madame for one of Manhattan’s most famed underground brothels.”

The table nearly collapsed under the vibrating weight of their collective shock. Toni held up her hands, surprised. “What? She swears it was the most empowering experience of her life!”

“See, but _why?_ ” Betty was impassioned now, her obsessive persistence coming through. “We know that sex is power, but who’s actually wielding that power when you’re being PAID by someone else?”

“Well, money is power, too, babe,” Toni replied. “And the client is parting with it willingly to sleep with you, rendering themselves powerless. So I think it’s a fair exchange of agency.”

Voices erupted all at once, as one might expect on such a contentious subject. Everyone was speaking now, throwing in their opinion - everyone, that is, except for Betty, who was still chewing on her pencil, staring into the distance.

 _Sex worker piece._ Toni’s words on the board were searing themselves into her mind. She had the seedling of an idea in her head. It was legitimately crazy, not to mention risky. But what was writing without the risk?

Sex, money and power. If she was to write about it, and write about it _well_ , she was going to need something beyond the breadth of her current experience.

Which was, quite frankly, _limited_.

She went up to the whiteboard, largely ignored by everyone in their impassioned debate, and picked up the pen. Underneath the words ‘sex worker piece’, she wrote in large, capital letters:

_UNDERCOVER._

Toni turned around, eyebrows shooting up. Veronica stopped mid-sentence and stared at the board. The rest of the women followed suit.

Betty cleared her throat. “If we want to write this piece truthfully, we’re gonna need more than just sources and quotes. We’re going to need _several_ voices - voices that are going to drive and basically write this piece, maybe a roundtable.”

She turned around, quickly writing ‘roundtable discussion’ on the board. “And to facilitate that conversation, you’ll need someone who understands the issue from the outside, but has also seen it from the inside.” She exhaled. “We need someone to go undercover. Even for just one job.”

Toni let out a low whistle. “That’s a huge ask, Betty. And _who_ do you suggest I send?”

Betty placed both hands on the table and looked her editor in the eye.

“Me.” She took in the gasps and shocked looks from her colleagues around the table. “I’ll do it. Send me.”

…

“Dad, explain this to me again,” an exasperated Jughead said, his grip threatening to clench his phone to death. “I asked for a standard room at the cheapest 3-star you could find. Why the _hell_ was I taken up to some penthouse by a driver I didn’t even know was meeting me at the airport? How are we even getting away with this in the accounting books, anyway?”

“Jesus. You sure know how to express your gratitude, Jug.” Forsythe Pendleton Jones II - FP to everyone who knew him - laughed his raspy, bone-dry laugh. “I’ve told you once, and I’ll tell you again - Southside Motors isn’t paying for your trip. Bellamy & Bryce is. They’re courting us because they want our advertising account, and part of that is showing us a good time. You’re representing us: that means _you_ get the good times, kid.”

Jughead kicked his suitcase shut before pinching the bridge of his nose to try and calm himself. “This is business. I don’t want a good time. Can’t we just... negotiate over this like normal people? Weigh up the pros and cons in a boardroom, fly in, fly out, no three-room penthouse monstrosity?”

“Jug, I sent you up to New York to try and do what it is that you do best - get us that deal and make sure it’s profitable. This is your job, boy. You’re good at it. I don’t know why you’re suddenly complaining about a few perks sent your way. I’d be cheering.”

 _‘This is your job.’_ Jughead leaned his head against the cool stone wall that flanked his enormous bed for the night. How could his own father not see? He was good at this job because he _had_ to be. Because to fail would be to have Southside Motors fail. And that meant that FP would fail too, and fall back into the dark abyss of the bottle.

He looked over at the pile of books on his bed - treasures he had stowed away for trips like this. Kafka. Proust. Woolf. Hemingway. Reminders of his own dreams.

_Just grit your teeth, put your head down and bear it. Two more years. Until the Southside is completely legitimate. Then you can walk away._

“Jug? You there?”

He took two breaths to calm himself. His voice came out cracked. “Yep.”

“I’m counting on you. Get this done for us, alright?”

“Alright, Dad.”

“Right. Good.” He could hear his father’s relief over the line. He was the good son, the _dependable_ son, and would come through. He always did.

“Anything else I need to know?”

“They’ll get in touch soon. For now, just… relax, okay?”

Jughead scoffed at that quietly.

The week was already anything but relaxing.

...

The vibrations of the phone under his pillow alerted Jughead to a call. He checked his watch groggily. 9 pm. He hadn’t even undressed for bed or cleaned his teeth. He must have passed out from exhaustion.

“Hello?”

“Is this Mr. Jones?”

He sat up. “Yes, speaking.”

“This is Matthew Goddard from Bellamy & Bryce. I trust that the penthouse at the Greenwich has been to your liking?”

 _Shit, all I wanted was a bed and a TV and a half-decent mini-bar._ “Uh, yes. The place is wonderful, thank you.”

“Excellent. Are you okay for me to detail tomorrow’s itinerary?”

“Oh. Of course, go ahead.”

“Breakfast will be served in your room, and a lunch reservation has been made on your behalf at the Loeb Boathouse in Central Park. Twelve noon.”

 _I’ll need to get my hands on a proper New York pizza in between._ “Great.”

“One of our drivers will pick you up and take you to our offices on West 20th Street, where you’ll meet our creative director and his team, who will be pitching their campaign for Southside Motors. Dinner will follow afterwards at Eleven Madison Park.”

Jughead tried to resist being impressed, but even _he_ had heard of the restaurant and their famous “Duck For Two” - cooked to a crisp, served whole with lavender and honey, then carved at the table. He swallowed the saliva pooling in his mouth.

“Great. Anything else?”

“Nothing more for tomorrow, Mr. Jones. But for tonight, you can expect your companion to join you at 10 o’clock sharp.”

_My WHAT?_

“Excuse me?”

“Your companion, Mr. Jones. To keep you, ah... _company_ for the night.”

Jughead stood up, alarmed. “I know damn well what a companion is. You must be mistaken. I didn’t --”

“We’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Jones, hopefully nice and refreshed.” The man had the audacity to _chuckle_. “Good night.”

_Click._

Jughead stared at his phone in horror.

They were sending him an escort.

...

Betty may have been wearing a trenchcoat, but she knew that the seamed stay-up stockings were still visible and were pretty damn sexy, if only she could get this Jughead guy to see it. But he seemed determined to look anywhere but at her. She sat on the couch, her long legs stretched out as she leaned back on the cushions in what she hoped was a pose of confidence.

It was odd, being in a position where the transaction of sex was supposed to be a given, and yet here she was, trying to seduce the guy.

_Research. You’re doing this for research._

She took a moment to size him up as he walked back through the long corridor of the penthouse, apparently to look for something. He wasn’t what she’d been taught to expect. For one, he was young - about her age, a year’s gap at most. He was dressed impeccably, well-presented, but his skittishness at her entrance hinted at someone who wasn’t quite at ease with himself. The quirky little crowns at his wrists spoke of a playful defiance lurking beneath the businessman facade, and she wondered at that - wondered at what fuelled his quiet rebellion, and why, despite all that, he was here, in New York City, right in the upper echelons of the status quo.

He was handsome, too - not quite a knockout punch, but a steady, resolute rhythm of a dance that made you dizzy and breathless once you’d learned the steps. His hair, she’d already established, was a thing of beauty, but the long, lean frame of his body was the perfect canvas for his suit, and looking the way he did when he stood in front of the elevator doors - tie undone, shirt unbuttoned halfway down his torso - he wouldn’t have looked out of place in one of _Lilith’_ s cheeky listicles, “Top 10 Handsome Men to Objectify, For Science (Obviously)”.

But his eyes were what gave her pause - a piercing shade between green and blue, clear and opaque all at once. She hated to use the cliche of mystery, but that was exactly what she saw in the brief moments they’d made eye contact. It was obvious that he was used to keeping things under wraps, but she also felt as though he’d yield his secrets, if only someone cared to ask.

 _Perhaps no-one’s cared enough_ , she thought.

Jughead’s voice interrupted her thoughts as it echoed down the corridor, announcing his approach. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “You’re not cold, are you? Can I offer you a drink?”

He sounded a little more sure, more confident of his grip on the situation. _About time_ , Betty thought, discreetly unbuckling the belt of her coat. Jughead had his phone in his hand, his wallet in the other. _Well at least he doesn’t want me to stay the night._

“Oh, no, I’m fine.” She flashed him her most alluring smile. “Everything okay?”

“Just clearing up a few things,” he said, before looking up and giving her a tight smile in return. “Sorry, I missed your name…?”

“My name?”

“I don’t really feel right doing this without knowing your name.”

Betty had discussed this beforehand with Toni. “Look,” Toni had said, “you’re lucky that Betty’s a fairly common name for strippers. Don’t look so offended - it’s a good thing. Anyway, stick with that. You don’t want to be lying about too much on the night.”

She slipped her belt loose, preparing herself.

“I’m Betty.”


	2. the resolve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **resolve (n.)**
> 
> a firm determination to do something.

Betty relished the languid, silken touch of the lavender-scented water around her.

She did this at least once a week - take a bath, and take her time doing so. It was a ritual of sorts, a cleansing. She always felt renewed afterwards, as if the grimy sheen of the week’s accumulated dross were now being scrubbed off and left in the water.

It was, perhaps, why she always stood over the bath once she was done, covered in her pink robe, watching the suds disappear down the drain. There was something calming about it, as if in observing the water’s slow descent into the nothingness, she was slowly being drained to nothingness herself, to a blissful blank slate where the pains and concerns that had hounded her during the week were erased from her body.

Today, however, she was taking longer than usual. Her fingers were pruning in the now-lukewarm water, and though she was beginning to shiver, she still wanted to sit there, alone with her thoughts. The cogs were clicking into place as it slowly dawned on her what she had said ‘yes’ to - the extraordinary risks it entailed and all the possible dangers.

Why did she do it? Why did she agree – no, _propose –_ to go undercover as a sex worker?

The thought of it panicked her momentarily, spurring her into movement. She got up suddenly, disturbing the placid surface of the water. She reached for the towel to dry herself off, before stepping out of the bath and standing in front of her mirror.

Unlike most of the girls at _Lilith,_ Betty didn’t quite adhere to the image of the industry she worked in - immaculate, fashion-forward and sharp. Sure, she was always well-presented, but never really daring. She had stared, bewildered, when Veronica came to work in fancy tracksuit pants and stiletto heels, and was further perplexed when everyone wore variations of the same thing weeks later.

She just didn’t have that edge in her. She’d never really looked at a mirror for too long, was never enamoured by her reflection the way many girls were.

But now, looking at herself, she realised that her own face surprised her. That there were angles that were new to her, lines she hadn’t seen there before - nothing more drastic than the natural consequence of ageing into her mid-twenties, but still novel and unfamiliar.

The past five years, she’d worked so hard, barely looking up, not even to see herself. Now, ironically, the opportunity to become _someone else_ was forcing her to take a long, hard look at herself.

“Are you doing this, Betty?” she said, out loud, experimentally. Her own voice echoed around the bathroom, and even that startled her.

Her reflection stared back.

_Am I?_

...

Veronica, as Betty had predicted, did _not_ take the undercover pitch well.

She had stared in growing horror as Betty and Toni discussed the logistics and security around the undercover assignment. The following protocols had been brainstormed on the board:

  1. Strict one-off. One client only - keeps research parameters small, keeps B as safe as possible.
  2. Small security detail provided (call Citadel for quote).
  3. Client must be screened carefully by _Lilith_ and a discreet escort service.
  4. Client remains anonymous in article.
  5. Client NEVER finds out about the assignment.
  6. Any money earned from the night to be donated to a women’s shelter - research and contact for confidentiality agreement.
  7. Betty must undergo counselling before AND after the assignment.



The article, Betty and Toni had agreed, would be a roundtable conversation between Betty and other sex workers, detailing their thoughts and experiences of the field, as insiders and an empathetic outsider. “We can start looking for our roundtable voices soon. Midge, can I get you on that? Penelope would be more than happy to be interviewed,” Toni volunteered. “She’s been talking about recording her memoirs anyway. I’ll get Cheryl to ask her first.”

Veronica couldn’t hold it in any longer. “I’m sorry, I just... Betty, a moment please?”

She practically shoved Betty outside and into a nearby bathroom. “Are. You. Insane?!”

Betty sighed. “Aww, V, come on—”

“No, no. You don’t get to ‘V’ me right now. You’re not _seriously_ thinking of doing this, are you?” Veronica was near spluttering. “Betty, this is _unsafe_.”

“For who? Me?”

“Yes!”

“ _Why?_ ” It was more of a challenge than a question. Betty leaned back against the sink, crossing her arms. “Tell me why, Veronica.”

“Because there are horrible, awful men out there who--”

“Will be _screened out_.”

“Yes, but what if--”

“I’ll have an actual security detail tailing me. That’s so much better than what _any_ sex worker has.”

“I _know,_ but Betty…” Veronica let out a frustrated groan. “God, do I really have to spell it out for you?! Do you really expect me to be okay with my _best friend_ going out there and sleeping with some random guy for money?!”

“Remove that last bit, and tell me why you’d have an issue with it. Go on.” Veronica opened and closed her mouth, unable to respond. Betty looked her square in the eye. “How is this different to that one time I randomly slept with Trev Brown from the apartment across the hall?”

“That’s completely different, and you know it.” Veronica crossed her arms. “You were lonely, and he was there, and you were feeling adventurous--”

“Well, maybe that’s what this is!” she burst out in reply. “Is that so bad?”

Veronica fell silent and studied her friend. “What do you mean?”

“V…” Betty sighed. “Can I just be completely honest with you? All my life, I have done everything the _right_ way. I’ve worked hard, stayed in my lane and--

“Yes! And you have done _amazingly_ in that lane--”

“But that’s just _it!_ I’ve…” She broke off into a frustrated sigh. “I went to Columbia like I was supposed to, ran the _Beat_ like I was supposed to _,_ graduated and got straight into this job _just as planned._ When did I ever step outside what was safe, what was comfortable? Where’s the risk in all of that?”

“Are you kidding?! Moving to New York - _that_ in itself was a risk, Betty.”

“And yet I haven’t ventured outside Manhattan and Brooklyn - never been to Harlem, never been out to the Bronx, never did anything remotely uncomfortable or dangerous!” She paused, seeming to absorb that. “I feel like… I look out at this city, and I barely understand it. I barely even understand _myself._ ”

Veronica regarded her quietly.

“Everything in my life has been handed to me, _planned_ for me, Veronica. Or I’ve just sort of fallen into it, like this job. But if I take this one shot to do something that truly means something to me, if I take this risk, maybe…”

Silence. A glance passed between them. “What, maybe you’ll find yourself?” Veronica finished for her.

Betty shook her head. “No, maybe I’ll _know_ myself.”

Veronica sank back against the sink, seemingly conceding. She sighed. “There’s really no way I could convince you otherwise?”

“No. I’m sorry, V.”

A brief silence ensued.

With an air of resignation, Veronica straightened up off the sink, standing squarely in front of Betty. “Well, then, in the immortal words of Ari Gold, let’s hug it out, B.”

Betty quirked an eyebrow at her. “Wasn’t the phrase, ‘let’s hug it out, bitch’?”

“I’m trying to phase that word out of my vocabulary." She shook her head. "It’s been _hard_. Besides, this one’s more apt for my context.”

Betty smiled at her before pulling her in for an embrace. As they walked out, Veronica turned to her. “Hey, Betty?”

“Mmm?”

“Can you just promise me one thing?”

“Sure.”

“Do not, _under any circumstance,_ let Kevin take you outfit-shopping. For a gay man working for _GQ_ , he sure has the absolute _worst_ taste in lingerie.”

“But he took me to Victoria Secret once.”

“Uh-huh. My point exactly.”

…

Of course, Jughead had no idea that the woman before him was wearing close to a thousand dollars’ worth of lingerie, picked up from La Perla, which her best friend had slapped right onto _Lilith’_ s company credit card. But then again, he didn’t have much idea of anything at all, as his mind went completely blank at the sight of the luscious, leggy blonde in front of him. He had his wallet in his hand, ready to pay her just to go away and keep this all quiet, but he was utterly paralysed just looking at her.

How long had it been since he’d had sex? He couldn’t even recall the last time. There’d been a few girls in college. But never anything permanent, and never with anyone like _this_ \- this beautiful stranger who was apparently on offer for him tonight.

His mouth went dry at the sight of her slipping her belt loose, her legs uncrossing as she slowly peeled off her coat for the second time that night. He’d been too bewildered to take anything in earlier. This time, she had his full attention, and he became aware of the growing tightness in his trousers as his eyes skated over her form.

As a man, Jughead knew that he was supposed to appreciate lingerie, but his eyes weren’t even registering the lace that covered her body. They were drawn instead to the tasteful glimpses of bare skin he could see - the tops of her thighs, interrupted by the dark, taut line of her suspenders, and the two creamy mounds of flesh pushed up by her startlingly low-cut bra.

She was walking towards him now, so close that her scent imprinted itself immediately in his memory, mostly because it was at odds with the vision before him. While he would have expected a note of heavy musk to emanate from the scantily-clad woman, what registered in his mind upon smelling her perfume was a startling image of flowers - fields and fields of flowers, fresh and clean, stretching out as far as the eye can see, underneath a bright cerulean sky. The juxtaposition jarred his senses - this woman who was both darkness and light, dusky temptation and bright sunshine.

Betty took hold of his loosened tie, slipping it off from around his shoulders. He expected her to drop it on the floor, but she did something even sexier: she draped it around her neck, and he felt something surge within him as he saw its fabric caressing her bare skin.

_I am never washing that tie._

Jughead swallowed thickly as she rested her arms on his shoulders, her fingers reaching around his neck, trailing through his hair and sending shivers down his spine. This close, he could see her face more clearly, and he shifted his earlier assumption: she wasn’t just sexy - she was alarmingly beautiful. Her lips were full and - he could tell - soft. Pillowy. Like a dream. As for her eyes, they were a striking forest green, steady and sure as they looked into his own, making him want to look away for fear that he’d be unable to untangle himself from their hold if he stared back a moment longer.

“So. Shall we get started?” she asked in a half-whisper.

“I… this is…” He cleared his throat, unable to get the words out as his ego flared at him, battling with his common sense.

_Come on, Jughead. Think this through. When are you ever going to have another opportunity like this? One night, no mess, no consequences. Not to mention this is the hottest girl you’ve ever laid eyes on._

“I-I’m really sorry,” he stammered, “but can you… can you just excuse me one second?”

“Again?” She arched an eyebrow flirtatiously at him. “Wow. If I had any common sense, I’d think you were avoiding me.”

Jughead gave a short, humourless laugh. _That’s because that is_ exactly _what I’m doing._ He called a lame excuse over his shoulder as he walked into the bathroom. Hurriedly, he closed the door behind him and placed his hands on the sink to steady his nerves.

His heart was pounding, blood and adrenaline pumping throughout his body as he reeled from that close encounter.

_Holy shit._

He glanced up at the mirror, taking a good, long look at himself. The dark circles under his eyes were even more pronounced than usual, his hair an oily, stringy mess and his skin ashen and pale. He was exhausted, sleep-deprived and anxious about the meetings in the days ahead.

Was he even in any state to make love to that woman tonight? Physically, he was spent. But emotionally, he also knew in himself that he’d only feel lonelier if he gave in to his urges. He’d have a good time, sure - he indulged himself, imagining, for just a second, standing up against the wall opposite the huge, full-length mirror in the hallway, the blonde kneeling in front of him, naked save for her stockings, watching her as she...

He groaned at the thought, which would have carried him straight into her waiting arms had he not imagined what would come next: a cold exchange of cash, an abrupt goodbye at the door, and a cold, forlorn trudge back into his bed, which he’d occupy alone for the night.

No. He was under far too much pressure to deal with that on top of everything else, to heap another burning coal on the raging fire of his loneliness. He shook his head at his reflection, suddenly resolute.

“Sorry, buddy,” he said to himself. “No can do.” And with that, he turned around and opened the door.

“Uh, Betty?” he called out. “You still there?”

“Yeah, right here.” Jughead looked out towards the living room and was surprised to see her handling one of the books he’d left out on the coffee table. It was a bizarre sight - seeing this lingerie-clad vixen standing casually in her stilettos while flipping through _The Sun Also Rises._ She looked up and smiled at him. “Hemingway, huh? You a fan?”

The line of questioning completely disoriented Jughead. He was ready to dismiss her politely, pay her what she was owed for her time and return with regret to his solitude, but she was now engaging him in conversation.

“I am, yeah,” he replied. “Are you?”

She scoffed. “You’re kidding, right?”

Jughead was taken aback. He came from Riverdale, a small town in which the most active literary discourse was the local book club’s frenzied discussion of _Fifty Shades of Grey._ No one liked or had time for the classics, for Capote and Fitzgerald and Hemingway. And for someone to know Hemingway enough to _dislike_ him…

 _Well,_ he thought, _count me intrigued._

“Why don’t you like Hemingway?” he asked cautiously.

Betty looked up at him. “Oh, wow, where do I even start? His aggressive machismo? His shallow portrayal of women? His abject fear of descriptive language?”

Jughead couldn’t help himself - he smiled. “I mean, I don’t really know about the other stuff, but you’re definitely right about the description. The guy _hates_ an adjective.”

“Yes! Oh my god, exactly.” Betty laughed as she placed the book down on the coffee table.

“But, uh, you have to admit... he still wrote pretty compellingly,” Jughead said, picking the book up and tucking it against his side. Betty may have had a point, but he still felt a little defensive of one of his favourite books. “His narratives are always so... pure. And direct. You gotta give that to him, right?”

Betty tilted her head to one side, thinking. “Oh, I don’t know. I think between speeding ahead with a narrative and going deeper, I’d pick going deeper anytime.”

 _Huh. Interesting._ “What do you mean by that?”

“What I mean is, I’d rather that a writer explored a character properly instead of, you know, moving forward relentlessly.” Betty shrugged. “It’s why I can’t read crime fiction. There’s too much happening, and I can’t invest in the characters. I’d rather have a slow, meandering journey through the forest than a wild goose chase towards a fixed end point, you know?”

“Yeah, I… totally.” Jughead nodded, a little dazed that he was having this conversation with _her_ . “So you _don’t_ think Hemingway does that? Go deep?”

“I don’t think he does it particularly _well_.”

“Ah, well then... I’ll have to respectfully disagree with you.”

They smiled at each other - the smile of two friendly opponents circling one another, of two dancers about to seize each other in a passionate, angry tango. It was a smile of warning, but also of enticement and invitation.

 _Come on,_ it said. _Engage me. Pull me in._

But the book slipped from Jughead’s hands, and its dull thud on the floor burst the heightened tension of the moment. He scrambled on the floor to pick it up, feeling a tinge of embarrassment. Overriding that, however, was a pleasant sense of surprise at the strange turn that the evening had taken. He’d started out flustered and panicked - now he was having a decent conversation with someone about one of his literary heroes.

_What if..._

Before he could even stop himself, he looked up at her and heard the following words spill out of his mouth:

“Hey. Do you mind if we just... talk tonight?”

_Whoa, Jughead. What the fuck?_

Betty regarded him as he knelt on the floor. She shifted uncomfortably in her sky-high heels. “I... kind of don’t get paid to talk.”

“Yeah, I know that… but…” He racked his brain for excuses, anything to keep her there. “I’m sorry. I’m kinda new at this. And I’m pretty nervous.” That was true so far. “What if… what if we extended the arrangement?”

Technically, Jughead wasn’t lying. He _was_ new to it, and he _was_ profusely nervous. But he conveniently neglected to tell her the underlying truth to it all: that maybe he had nothing to do with her coming here tonight, but he sure was going to find a reason to make her stay.

Betty crossed her arms. “How long are we talking?”

Jughead tried to ignore the swell of her breasts that rose higher as she pressed her arms to her body. “Well, it depends,” he said. “How long are you available? I fly out Saturday morning.”

“You’re here for three nights?”

“Four, actually, including tonight.” He cleared his throat. “And... I wasn’t just thinking nights. It’s my first time in New York, and I’d… I’d love for you to keep me company while I’m here in the city.”

Betty raised an eyebrow. “That’s gonna cost you. A lot.”

Ah, money. Finally something Jughead knew how to deal with. He slipped his hands inside his pockets and mirrored her stance. “How much are we talking?”

Betty crossed the floor over to him. As she walked past, he felt her bare skin brush against his arm, its heat radiating through the thin fabric of his dress shirt. She picked up her trenchcoat, which was lying on the couch next to him, and reached into its pocket. “Let me call my boss.”

…

“Toni, goddamn it, pick up.”

Betty was pacing frantically inside of the master bedroom, which Jughead had directed her to when she asked if she could make the call privately. The night was _not_ going as planned. Ideally, she would’ve been in here by now, on the bed, stripped naked and held in a rough embrace. But as fate would have it, she was calling her editor instead to try and figure out what the going price was for a three-day escort.

Finally, the call connected. “Betty?” Toni sounded groggy. “Are you okay? Are you home yet?”

“No, I’m not home.” Betty massaged her temples, trying to steady herself. “So, the guy hasn’t slept with me yet. Long story short, I think he just wants company. He’s asked to see me everyday until _Saturday_.”

“What?!” Toni barked. In the background, Betty could hear a rustling of sheets and a whine of protest - Cheryl was probably complaining about having her sleep broken. “Hang on, let me move somewhere else. Cheryl’s a really light sleeper.”

As Toni busied herself on the other end of the line, Betty glanced around the room. There was a semi-unpacked suitcase on the floor, clothes strewn about around it in what she recognised as an attempt to find something that had been packed deep into the bag. A toothbrush, perhaps. Or a pair of socks. Or…

A worn grey beanie?

Betty bent down and examined the odd item, which was lying on the floor. She realised that it wasn’t just any kind of beanie - it had jagged edges turned up at the end to resemble a crown. Suddenly, she remembered the similarly-shaped cufflinks on his wrists. Apparently they weren’t just some quirk; they had a bigger story behind them.

“Alright, Betty, you there?” Toni said. 

Betty stood up straight, as though she'd been found out. “Yep. I'm here.”

“Okay, so he doesn’t actually want to sleep with you?” Toni scoffed. “God, did the guy even see you? Cheryl's exact words were, ‘holy fucking hell.’”

“Oh, he did. I’m pretty sure I flashed him my outfit _twice_.” Betty sighed. “I don’t know. I _think_ he wants to sleep with me…? Just… not now. Not tonight.”

“Right. So he just wants companionship then, I suppose. How did that come about? Did he tell you that straight up?”

“No. We started talking about Ernest Hemingway, of all things, and next thing you know he was asking me to hang around until Saturday. During the _day_ as well.”

“Wait, back up - why were you guys talking about _Hemingway_?”

Betty threw up her hands. “I don’t know! He just seemed really nervous and he kept coming in and out of the room and I just wanted to put the poor guy at ease. So I saw _The Sun Also Rises_ and before you know it—“

“You _hate_ that book.”

“Well, yeah, but this guy seemed to _like_ that I hated it. Or at least, he liked that I had an opinion on it, and he seemed happy to debate about plot development and character, even after I basically decimated his favourite author.”

“That’s… unexpected.”

“Yeah. Oh, and also, speaking of unexpected? He’s _a lot_ younger than I thought he’d be.”

“Mister Forsythe Pendleton Jones III, really? I thought we were getting some big shot Midwest car mogul. Or at least that was the impression that the escort service gave me when they screened this guy.”

“Well, mogul or not, this guy can’t be much older than me.”

“Huh.” Betty could almost hear Toni’s thoughts as they turned in her head. “So, is he cute?”

Betty rolled her eyes. “Toni, come on.”

“I’m just curious!”

How could she even respond to that? “He’s... a lot of things, _”_ she replied carefully, “But I’m not sure if ‘cute’ is not the right word for it.”

“Hmmm. Okay, then.” Betty tried to ignore Toni’s tone. “So this guy wants to see you every day until Saturday?”

“Yep, that’s right. What am I supposed to do?”

“I assume he’s willing to pay.” It was a statement rather than a question.

“Yes.”

“Hmm. Well, I can free you up for the next few days, get Midge to look after some of your workload at the office--”

“Whoa, wait,” Betty said haltingly. “You think this is a good idea?”

“Why not?” Toni replied. “I mean, given _you’re_ willing to do it, of course. But he doesn’t seem like a creep or a jerk, he’s willing to fork out the money, and from what I can tell, he kind of just wants some sort of... girlfriend experience. Is that something you feel comfortable doing?”

“I mean…” Betty bit her nail, thinking. “It’s a longer commitment than what I was thinking…”

“Look, you can absolutely opt out if you want. But think of what that breadth of experience can bring to the table when you head up this article. Think of what you can do with an angle on loneliness and companionship and intimacy and how all of that plays into an escort’s job. Might be interesting, right?”

Betty murmured in assent.

“Look, if you’re unsure, you need to tell me now. I’m looking after you, Betty, but I’ve got a bottom line, too, and I need to run _Lilith._ I’ll need to make sure I’ve got something to replace your feature.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Betty replied.

“But if it’s something you still want to do, I’m all for it, and we’ll do everything it takes to make you comfortable and safe.”

The truth was that Betty didn’t need much persuading. She had to admit that the experience was still intriguing, and that she was passionate about writing the article.

But if she was being honest, _Jughead_ intrigued her, too - this young, handsome businessman who had all the trappings of power, everything he could have ever wanted, but still seemed so… directionless. Lost. And if being on the assignment meant being around him, then...

“B, you there?” Toni asked. “Are you still in?”

Betty nodded, her resolve renewed. “Yeah. Okay. I’m in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The protocols for Betty's assignment were carefully created and edited to ensure that the character was able to delve into a risky assignment without being in outright danger. I fully acknowledge that there are plenty of risks in the sex work profession that could fall through some loopholes in these rules, and thus they might be imperfect. However the intent in this fic has always been to keep Betty safe, and for her to make her own choices, and I really hope that comes through.
> 
> "Let's hug it out, B". An Entourage reference! Someone please write me a Veronica-as-Ari-Gold fic. 
> 
> Apologies to anyone who's a Victoria Secret fan - Veronica's taste is EXPENSIVE. It's La Perla or nothing!
> 
> This is my favourite iteration of the Choni relationship - domestic high-power babes who need their beauty sleep!


	3. the rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **rules (n.)**
> 
> a set of explicit or understood regulations or principles governing conduct.

Jughead didn’t know much about cars. This, at first glance, made him absolutely useless to Southside Motors.

What he did know well, however, was the art of making a deal. And that skill made him indispensable to the rise of his father’s company.

When FP needed the money to develop a workable prototype for the hybrid pickup truck that soon become Southside Motors’ signature vehicle, Jughead showed up at the door of Max Markus, a former Serpent who owed a huge debt to his father. Within three hours of fierce negotiating on the man’s porch, Jughead had FP’s startup cash.

When the company needed approval to expand its operations into the Northside but faced the harsh anti-Southside bias of Mayor McCoy, Jughead marched into her office and got himself a permit, and, because he was feeling lucky, also managed to haggle official permission to use the byline “Made In Riverdale” in all of the company’s marketing and publicity.

When the _Greendale Gazette_ refused to run ads for their first showroom, Jughead charmingly cajoled their editor over drinks, which turned out so well that the man drunkenly announced to the bar that he was going to name his first son Jughead (he didn’t, but Jughead didn’t care - he got what he wanted).

Jughead was so good at what he did that FP affectionately called his son the Closer, and the rest of the company followed suit. Whenever they needed someone to manhandle the business side of things, whenever they needed someone appealing but firm, strategic but also assertive, they sent Jughead in. His official title was Head of Publicity, but his value to the company went beyond that: the work he did kept the company alive.

What people didn’t realise, however, was that Jughead wasn’t necessarily good at making a deal - he was just good at bargaining.

Bargaining against all odds to keep the company successful, so that the Jones men could survive.

Bargaining with the ghosts of alcohol to release its grip on his father.

Bargaining with the Muses to sustain his dreams of writing - pleading with them to stay, _please stay,_ at least until he could make a clean exit from the company.

As he waited outside for Betty to finish her phone call, he recognised the same impulse in him. On the surface, perhaps he was making a straightforward business deal - a transaction to extend an arrangement of sexual convenience.

But really?

He was bargaining for intimacy.

…

“If we’re going to do this, we’re going to need some rules,” Betty said, her words sounding braver than she felt. Her trenchcoat was belted shut, her head in business mode. “It’s going to be three days, and I want us both to know what we’re getting into.”

“Okay,” Jughead said, sitting down. “I’m listening.”

Betty cleared her throat. “Firstly. Nine thousand dollars. That’s what it’s going to cost you to spend the rest of the week with me.”

“Upfront?”

She was taken aback. What kind of guy just happened to have nine thousand dollars lying around? “Well, not necessarily. You can give me the cut at the end of each day.”

“Alright,” he replied. “Three thousand for each full day. Seems fair.”

“Okay.” _Phew. Keep going._ “Secondly, you can do anything with me, but it has to be with _my_ consent.”

Jughead looked horrified. “Oh my god, of course.” He eyed her carefully. “I’m sorry - was there _any_ other way?”

She thought of the horror stories she’d heard from Penelope, the sex workers who’d reported multiple instances of harassment and assault. “You’d be surprised,” she said bleakly.

“I’m really sorry to hear that,” he said. “But... please know, I don’t want to do anything that _you_ don’t want to.”

That gave Betty some comfort. “Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome. Rule three?”

“Rule three is, I can’t stay over. I can show up here as early as you want, and we can do whatever it is that we do each night, but I’m not staying here, as amazing as this place is. I have my own place, and sleeping over can get... complicated.”

“Got it,” Jughead said. “Was that all of it?”

“No. Just one more thing.” Betty exhaled a long breath. “I really can’t kiss you. Or hold your hand. Sorry, but in my line of work, girls need to have boundaries. And those are mine.”

Jughead nodded. “That’s understandable. Anything else?”

“That should be it. From me, anyway.” Betty gave a satisfied nod to punctuate the end of her spiel. “So, now it’s your turn. What do you expect out of this? What should I be prepared for? Was there anything a little specific, or, um… _unconventional_ that you wanted?”

“Oh, god, no.” Jughead looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know, uh… keep me company during the day and at night, I guess? I’m a real easy guy. I don’t want anything out of the ordinary. Just... you, I guess.”

Betty could tell that he hadn’t meant for that to sound as tender as it did. She suppressed a smile. They may have been no more than an escort and her client, but it still flattered her, having both this handsome man’s attention _and_ attraction. “Alright then,” she said. “Just me it is.”

He gave a curt nod and held his hand out. “I guess we have a deal then.”

“We do.” Betty took his proffered hand, feeling the hardened knots on his fingers, suddenly aware that this was the first time they had actually touched each other. Already, it held the promise of electricity. She tried not to think about what that might imply about other, more intimate moments that they were bound to have in the days ahead.

But the way he let go of her handshake quickly, almost flinching, told her that he was probably thinking along the same lines.

“So,” he said, clearing his throat. “Are you in much of a hurry to go anywhere tonight, or…?”

“Oh, I’m okay to stay,” Betty said. “But…”

She trailed off, not sure how to explain her predicament. She was hoping he could figure it all out by himself. Jughead only narrowed his eyes at her. “Yes?”

_Alright,_ she thought. _You asked for it._ She unfastened her coat and held it open for him. It was the third time Jughead had seen her lingerie get-up that night, and having done it with some good humour this time around, she thought that he would’ve been immune to its overall effect by now, but the tense ripple in his jaw told her otherwise.

“I’m not dressed for just hanging out,” she said. “And I can’t just wear this coat all night.”

“Oh. Uh, right.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Is there anywhere you could go to grab something? Do you live close by?”

She actually did, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. They may have been getting along, but she was still cautious. “No,” she lied.

“Okay.” He laughed awkwardly. “Well, unless you wanna wear my clothes, there’s really no — “

“Would that be alright?” she asked.

“What, wear my clothes?” Jughead looked at her skeptically. “Really?”

“Yeah, well,” she shrugged, “I’ve got nothing else.”

“Right. Of course,” he said. “I don’t really have much, but my suitcase is in the room you were just in - there should be a few shirts in there. I’ll make sure to turn up the heat, too.”

_Oh, come on._ This was just too easy. Betty decided to play up to her role a little bit. Why not have a little fun while she was at it?

“No, handsome,” she said with a wink as she traipsed off into the bedroom. “That’s _my_ job.”

She wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard a quiet groan as she closed the door.

…

Betty looked through Jughead’s suitcase for something to wear. She took out a crisp white business shirt, laying it over the bed, planning to wear it over her lacy underwear, when she felt soft, worn cotton brushing against her fingers. Curious, she pulled it out.

It was a faded grey t-shirt, the kind she would have had have lying in the back of her closet, refusing to throw it out for sentimental reasons. She unfolded it and saw that it was emblazoned with a giant ‘S’ in a darker grey. It was a strange thing to find in a wealthy businessman’s suitcase - a piece of clothing that seemed so juvenile, almost childish.

Betty noted, however, the feel and give of the fabric - it was clearly an older shirt, one that he probably liked wearing regularly. His unusual beanie was still lying on the floor where it had been left earlier, and she wondered at what the new clue of his shirt meant, what it contributed to the strange, discordant image of this man that she had been building up in her head throughout the night. Everything she noted - his demeanour, his books, his clothes, his conversations with her - seemed completely at odds with the power and status that he had.

_Who WAS this guy?_

Without knowing why she did it, Betty lifted the shirt up to her face, taking in its scent of pine and leather and fresh laundry, as if by doing so she could seek to understand Jughead better. The smell startled her - the comfortable everyday that she could smell in that fragrance, as well as the home-like feel of the cotton against her cheek. Both whispered to her of the familiar, that perhaps she knew this Jughead Jones better than she thought.

Discarding her earlier plans to wear one of his business shirts, she slipped the grey t-shirt onto her frame. It was long enough that it covered her thighs nearly halfway to her knees - she remembered, suddenly, how much _taller_ he was than her. Bending down, she unfastened the suspenders and slipped her heels and stockings off, leaving her panties on and her bra underneath the shirt. Quickly, she ran her fingers through her hair, loosening the curls into softer waves before finally wiping her dark red lipstick off.

She smiled at her reflection in the full-length mirror that stretched the length of the bed. Now, she felt like herself. Jughead didn’t seem all too comfortable with the lingerie, anyway; his eyes only really lit up when she engaged his mind and provoked his thoughts. Perhaps he wasn’t an easy one to seduce. Perhaps he craved something more organic, authentic.

She rolled her eyes at herself. “That’s bullshit, Betty,” she said out loud. “He’s _hiring_ you. As a prostitute.”

The words sounded resolute, but they felt empty. Even as she folded her clothes into a neat heap on the bed, preparing to go out and perform her role, she tried to ignore what would have been obvious to anyone else observing the pair: the magnetic pull of undeniable chemistry between them.

…

It was hours later, after Betty had gone home, that Jughead desperately wished that he had met her under completely different circumstances.

The first night had gone exceptionally well - far better than he expected. In fact, if Jughead was being honest with himself, he would’ve called it one of the best nights of his life - certainly better than any date he’d ever been on. There was something about the casual rapport of the evening - so different to what he had expected when he first opened the door and saw her standing there - that made him feel comfortable and easy and _understood_. Perhaps it was the bare, businesslike nature of their arrangement that made that possible. Both of them knew that she was being paid to keep him company, and neither of them were under any illusions.

His grey shirt on her, though...

She had disappeared into his room when he realised that he was actually hungry, having fallen asleep without eating dinner. He picked up the phone and ordered room service - a cheeseburger with the works and a chocolate milkshake for him, and an extra serving of fries and a vanilla milkshake for Betty, just in case she was hungry, too. He wondered how many other clients had done that for her - given her food without being asked, or even engaged her in conversation beyond the customary talk that characterised her job.

The sound of a door opening startled him out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see Betty standing a few meters away from him, barefoot and wearing his favourite sleeping shirt, with a light blanket thrown over her shoulders.

He had to make a conscious effort not to let his jaw drop. She looked incredible earlier, no doubt, but the sight of her wearing something so familiar, so _intimate_ to him made his pulse race more urgently than it had all night. Suddenly, she wasn’t just some magnificent, otherworldly, alien vision that had materialised in front of him; she was someone real and accessible, someone he could have met on the street, someone he could imagine himself talking to and drinking with until the call for last drinks went out.

_Well, no,_ he corrected himself. _You’re dreaming if you think someone like that would even give you a second glance, Jones._

“I hope it’s okay that I wore this,” she said, with a smile bordering on shyness. It was adorable.

“Of… of course,” he replied. He added that shirt to his tie as another item of clothing he was never going to throw in the laundry. “It looks good on you.”

_Mother of god. ‘It looks good on you’?!_ Jughead winced inwardly at the unintentionally flirtatious note of his statement. Luckily, Betty saved him, winking theatrically, making them both laugh and lightening the moment.

That was better. As long as they could acknowledge that this was all an elaborate ruse - that they were performing the role of escort and client, and nothing more - he could deal with any slip-ups on his part.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I ordered room service and got them to send up a big plate of fries and milkshakes to go with my cheeseburger, in case you wanted something to munch on.”

Betty’s face lit up. “Actually, yeah, I’m starving. Well, just peckish, really. I’d love some fries.” She eyed him carefully. “What milkshake did you get for me?”

“I guessed vanilla.”

“Ah, accurate! Well done.”

He tried not to preen. But it was all too easy to guess. Most people associated vanilla with blandness, but to him it was something that was subtly surprising. And sweet. Like her.

His thoughts froze when she suddenly touched his arm. “Thanks, Jughead. That was really thoughtful of you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied. “Besides, I hate eating alone. We are… what’s the saying? We’re born alone and we live alone and die alone, but that doesn’t mean we have to _eat_ alone.”

She chuckled. “Orson Welles, right?”

“Yes,” he said, thoroughly impressed. “Well, obviously not the ‘eat alone’ part. That’s just me embellishing.”

“Well, you know, Orson would’ve probably agreed with the embellishment,” she replied. “Considering that this was a guy whose final punchline to his masterpiece was a shot of a childhood sled _,_ I’d say he would have been fairly sentimental.”

Jughead gave her a faint smile. “You’ve seen _Citizen Kane_?”

“Had to. Out of curiosity.”

“And what’d you think?”

“Oh, um…” Betty shrugged. “I get it. I really do. It’s good, don’t get me wrong. But to tell you the truth, I’m more of a _Rebel Without A Cause_ kinda girl.”

Jughead laughed. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“That’s like, my favourite film of all time.”

Betty arched an eyebrow at him. “Really? Wow. I would _not_ have picked that.”

“Really? What would you have picked?”

He didn’t mean to do that - to invite introspection, to ask this total stranger to look closer at him. But… well, she was wearing his shirt, after all, and not much else besides. They were well past formalities at this point.

“I don’t know,” she said, flopping down onto the couch, crossing her perfect, slender legs and narrowing her eyes at him. “Based on what you do… well, you’re a businessman, right?”

_Not really. I’m a writer trying to bail my dad out of his demons. So I’m stuck._ “Sure, yeah.”

“Maybe... _The Social Network? The Wolf of Wall Street?_ ”

Jughead gave a humourless laugh and shook his head. “No way. That’s like me saying your favourite film would have been _Breakfast at Tiffany’s._ ”

That came out a little harshly. He saw Betty wince slightly at the reference and wanted to punch himself for fucking that up, for implying that she was some desperate Holly Golightly who sold her affections to the highest bidder. She may have been an escort, but he knew nothing else about her beyond that, just like she knew nothing about _him._

Luckily, she was gracious about it. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’m sorry. That was a total misread.”

“No, please - _I’m_ sorry. That was… that was, god. That was really unfair and presumptuous of me, Betty.”

They glanced at each other. Betty seemed a little awkward, as though she regretted what she assumed of him, and Jughead wanted the earth to swallow him up. It was like a bizarre date, where he’d already seen her half-naked but hadn’t had dinner with her yet, plus the fact that he was paying her an obscene amount of money to stay. But he didn’t want it to feel that way. He wanted her to feel at ease, to actually _want_ to stick around. She broke the silence first.

“It’s funny,” she said. “Both of us kinda assumed that pretty quickly, huh?”

“Yeah,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, Betty, again, I’m sorry. That was… really stupid of me.”

“Well, I probably shouldn’t have been so certain about _Wolf of Wall Street,_ either,” she conceded. “Hey. It’s okay. We’re okay, Jug.”

He couldn’t suppress his smile.

“Was that okay?” she asked. “ _Jug._ I thought it might be your nickname.”

“It is,” he said. “It’s just, I haven’t been called that in a long time.” _Forsythe. Mr. Jones. The Closer. Kid. Boy. Jughead._ Any of those, but never just _Jug._

A soft _ding_ sound broke through the room before they heard the soft hum of the elevator doors opening. “Mr. Jones?” a voice called out.

“Crap. That’s right,” Jughead said. “Room service. Do you mind if I…?”

“Oh no, please, go ahead.”

The young hotel bellboy wheeled in a trolley with an elaborate silver dome over the top of it. Jughead tipped him a little too generously, much to the kid’s wide-eyed confusion and gratitude. He couldn’t help it - it came from years of growing up poor and seeing his father take up odd, thankless jobs across town before coming home every night to count out his tips. Whenever he had the chance to tip well, he made sure he did.

“Hey, so you know this hotel apparently hires the best hotel chef in all of Manhattan?” Betty said, standing up as Jughead pulled off the dome to reveal a huge, mouth-watering cheeseburger underneath, nestled in a pile of fries that emitted an exotic, intoxicating, vaguely mushroom-like aroma.

“Really? I’ve never heard that.”

“Yeah! I mean, when DeNiro owns the hotel--”

Jughead turned to her. “Hang on, like _Robert_ DeNiro? _He_ owns this hotel?”

Betty gave him a funny look. “Yeah. That’s what the Greenwich is famous for. Wasn’t that why you booked this in the first place?”

“No,” he said, mind reeling as he took in the fact that he was staying in a room owned by own of his cinematic heroes. “It was sort of just... booked for me.”

“Oh. Okay.”

The tone of her voice made Jughead realise that their conversation was skirting dangerously close to the truth he’d been avoiding all night. It was true that he had every intention at the beginning of the night to send her away, to let her know that there had been a mistake, but he had manipulated the situation to spend more time with her.  

He was conveniently neglecting to tell her the truth, wanting to ease some of his loneliness. And simply because, well, she _intrigued_ him. He knew that in terms of lies, it wasn’t the worst, but he also didn’t want her to think that he was taking advantage of her and what she did for a living.

He changed the subject swiftly. “So, uh... you said that this guy’s the best hotel chef in Manhattan?

“Yeah. And it’s pretty obvious.” Betty picked up a fry and bit into it. She gestured at his cheeseburger. “That’s some yummy gruyere oozing out of your burger, and these French fries are definitely finished off with truffle oil, if not actual shaved truffles.”

“Ah, truffles,” Jughead said. “That’s it. That’s what I could smell.”

“You’ve had truffles before?”

“I have, but only when I travel. I come from a small auto town, so we basically just have one diner off the main street - a damn good one, mind you, called Pop’s - and, well, they don’t serve truffle anything. Best burgers for miles, though.”

Betty laughed as she finished off her fry. “It sounds great. Where’s that at?”

“Riverdale. It’s tiny.”

She chewed on her lower lip. “Why does that sound so familiar?”

“‘Made in Riverdale’ maybe? Southside Motors?”

“Oh, of course! With the hybrid trucks, right?” Jughead nodded. Her expression froze as she regarded him. “Hang on. Do _you_ run Southside Motors?”

Jughead gave an ironic laugh. “God, no. But… my family does.”

“So you’re in the family business?”

“In a sense, yes.”

“I see. Is that what you’re in New York for?”

“Yeah, Bellamy and Bryce - the ad agency? - they’re pitching a campaign for the company,” Jughead replied. “So... I’m here representing my father, really.”

“Wow,” Betty said. “Interesting.”

Jughead bit into a fry. “What about you? Do you come from a small town as well?”

She seemed hesitant to respond to that. He rushed to correct himself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ask. That’s not really my place.”

“Oh, no, no - it’s okay. I’m…” Betty chewed on her fry thoughtfully. “I can’t really tell you specifically where, but yes, I’m from a small town, too. Smaller than New York, anyway. Which is pretty much any town in America, right?”

They both laughed at that.

“It was a one-diner type of town, too, if you’re curious,” she added. Then, cheekily, “And I’m _betting_ Weatherbee’s burgers can beat your Pop’s any day.”

“Hey, watch it,” he said warningly. “I won’t have you blaspheming Pop’s. It won the local county’s burger contest ten years running. It’s all in the patty.”

“Yeah, well, the Weatherbee’s patty was pretty damn amazing, too,” she countered playfully.

“There’s only really one way to settle this, you know,” he said, picking up a knife. “We gotta halve this burger and see how it compares to Pop’s and Weatherbee’s.”

“Nice, so at least we have a shared experience.” Betty grinned. “Sounds fair. Although… don’t you _want_ your burger?”

“Nah, it’s going to a good cause,” Jughead replied as he cut the cheeseburger in even halves. “Here’s yours.”

She took her half and bit into it. He kept his eyes trained on her as she closed her eyes in pleasure, relishing the burger, making noises that were not helping his growing attraction to her.

“Oh my god,” she said, her mouth full. “This is…”

_Oh yeah, I’m supposed to be eating this, too._ He bit in, and relished the feeling of the patty practically melting into his mouth. It was unlike anything he’d had before. It wasn’t necessarily _better_ than Pop’s, just… different. New. Untasted.

“It’s pretty fucking good,” he said, laughing.

“I mean,” she said. “I’ll always go back to Weatherbee’s for sentimental reasons, but… this is amazing.”

“It is.”

They chewed together thoughtfully, finishing off their respective halves. “Hey,” he said. “I know we talked about rules earlier, but… how about we add another rule to the list?”

Betty looked intently at him. “What did you have in mind?”

“Let’s say… each of us is allowed to ask the other person ONE personal question about themselves. Per day.”

“One per day,” she repeated.

“Yep.”

“Anything?”

“Obviously within reason.”

Betty nodded thoughtfully. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Okay.”

They smiled at each other. Both of them picked at the rest of the fries, a comfortable, eating silence enveloping them.

“So,” Jughead said, “can I ask you my first question now?”

She laughed. “You already have one?”

“I’m curious. And besides, it’s pretty tame. But it’s a burning one.”

“Alright, shoot.”

He fixed a serious gaze on her. “Why do you hate Hemingway so much?”

She laughed - a beautiful, proper bellow of laugh that made his heart sing, because he’d been the source of that laugh. He smiled helplessly at her. “What? I’m serious! Why?”

“That was really your first question?”

“Well, we had a good thing going on earlier,” he said. “And... it’s important to me.”

And it really was. Because outside of his own thoughts, he didn’t really have anyone else to talk about this with - the overflow of words and prose and poetry that were trilling through him at any given second, threatening to burst out. Betty was like water to a thirsty man, and not in the ways that he would have expected, opening the door to her lingerie-clad body that night.

“Okay, Jughead Jones,” she said, grabbing his milkshake and sipping through the straw, never breaking eye contact with him. He felt his insides clench. “I’ll tell you why. But you better have all night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jughead being a stickler for consent, to the point that he is horrified by Betty having to come out and ASK for it (to him, it is always a given), has always been my headcanon - I hope you liked that! 
> 
> At this point, I imagine that Southside Motors would be a company on the cusp of explosion - not quite a major player, but a much-needed sustainable option in the truck industry. Bellamy and Bryce is implied to be a huge ad agency, and the fact that they are courting Southside so ardently to sign on as an account, to the point that they're putting Jughead up in a super-exclusive hotel, should suggest the emerging power of the company. 
> 
> I hope the Breakfast at Tiffany's reference made sense. Holly Golightly is implied to be a courtesan of sorts, and Jughead's faux pas centres on that. 
> 
> The Greenwich Hotel IS owned by Robert DeNiro, although the little detail of having the best hotel chef in Manhattan was completely conjectural on my part. As for the gruyere and truffles - forgive me for my little indulgent detailing on Jughead's burger!
> 
> It's been really strange crafting a Betty and Jughead who have grown up in separate towns, but I hope that I've been able to successfully paint both as small-town kids at heart.
> 
> Thank you for reading and for sticking around for this ride. I've been overwhelmed by all the positive feedback, but I AM endeavouring to get back to everyone! Let me know if you loved this chapter!! xx


	4. the riveted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **riveted (v.)**
> 
> fascinated; captivated; intrigued.

Betty woke up in her own bed still wearing Jughead’s shirt.

She picked up her phone to check the time. 8 am. Only six hours after she’d stumbled back into her apartment, groggy and drained from having to pretend to be an escort all night, but energised from entertaining some spirited debate and banter from an adamant Hemingway fan.

An adamant and _intriguing_ Hemingway fan.

Betty lay on her back, squinting at the sunlit ceiling. She’d given up any pretense at resisting these thoughts now. She couldn’t deny that she had a great night with Jughead - unexpectedly low-key, but also so much more invigorating and interesting than she’d anticipated. In a way, it was almost _better_ than sex, or at least the cold, clinical sex she was expecting to have. It was a meeting of two equal minds. With every idea that Jughead countered, every point that he graciously conceded, every glimpse of his rare, hesitant half-moon of a smile, Betty felt herself being inexorably drawn deeper into him.

She groaned and kicked her covers off, rubbing her eyes in mild frustration. Luckily, the phone rang, interrupting her thoughts, preventing any further reverie on Jughead Jones. She looked at the screen: Veronica. _Yikes. This is going to be awkward._ “Hey, V.”

“You have _no_ idea how badly I slept last night.”

Betty chuckled. Veronica was never one for greetings. “And good morning to you, too.”

“So firstly,” Veronica exhaled a deep breath, “are you okay?”

“I am. Thank you for asking.”

“How was it?” she asked cautiously.

“It was, um…” Betty searched for words, something to encapsulate the surreal character of the night. Nice? Interesting? Fun?

 _A beginning,_ she felt her heart whisper traitorously.

She shook that off, before suddenly remembering that she hadn’t even told Veronica about her week-long deal with Jughead.

“It was…” She cleared her throat. “Extended.”

Silence on the other end of the line. “Extended?” Veronica repeated. “What do you mean it was _extended_?”

Betty sat up in bed. She was going to need every ounce of energy to duke this out with her protective, but well-intentioned, best friend. “He... wanted someone to hang out with him for the week,” she said. “And he was a nice guy. Kind. And decent. So, after speaking with Toni --”

“ _Toni_ knows about this?!”

“V-- calm, please? I’m still processing this as it is.”

“Okay. Sorry. Go ahead.”

Betty took a deep breath. “After speaking with Toni, she and I both agreed that it might be interesting to extend the assignment, given that it’s… an unusual one.”

“What do you mean? Like he’s into weird stuff?”

Betty laughed. “No, no. Like, he kind of just wants a companion. Or a friend. I think… I think he’s lonely, to be honest.”

“I mean, that’s fair, but why didn’t he just say that when he booked you through the escort agency?”

Betty was on the verge of replying when she hesitated, realising she actually had no idea _why_ he’d booked her. Which was strange. Jughead had acted like he was surprised to see her, but then did a swift 180-degree turn and asked her to stay for the rest of the week after they spoke for a little longer. Was it _her?_ Did she somehow provoke him into engaging her for longer?

“Hey, B? Sorry babe, Toni’s calling on the other line,” Veronica said. “I’ll talk to you later. Promise me you’ll tell me _everything_!” Then the line went dead.

Betty breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn’t sure she _could_ tell Veronica everything. So much of it had to do with context. How else could she explain Jughead to her best friend unless she showed her the kindness in his eyes, the quirky little crowns on his wrists, the way he offered her the rest of his milkshake when he saw how quickly she’d drained hers? To Veronica, he may have been a faceless client, but to her, he was… Jug. Whose shirt was probably the most comfortable piece of sleepwear she’d ever worn.

She looked down at her phone, and noticed that she had a message - from the number she’d entered into her phone right before she stepped into the TriBeCa penthouse.

 _Jughead,_ she thought.

**Forsythe P. Jones III (Client):**

       Morning. How are you?

Her pulse surging, she unlocked her phone. _Damn it. Now he knows I’ve read it._ Her hands hovered reluctantly over the keyboard, wondering what she should say in return.

“What would Escort Betty say?” she said out loud.

She typed out a few messages experimentally. _Morning, handsome. Hey, you. I’m good, baby, how are you?_

She groaned. None of them felt right.

Finally, she typed out simply (and sincerely): “And good morning to you. I had a great night :) You?”

Three dots appeared right under the message. Good, he was replying quickly.

**Forsythe P. Jones III (Client)**

I had a really great night, too.

So should I plan out the day... or do _you_ do that?

Betty replied: _Bit of both, how about that?_ Then, a wink emoji.

**Forsythe P. Jones III (Client)**

I’m terrible at making plans. Literally all my plans today were made by someone else. Ha.

“Wow,” Betty spoke out loud as she typed out her reply. “Should I read into that, or--?” She laughed quietly to herself as she pressed ‘send.’

**Forsythe P. Jones III (Client)**

No thanks. You can armchair psychologise me later.

‘Psychologise’ - That’s a word, right?

 _Totally a word,_ Betty texted back.

**Forsythe P. Jones III (Client)**

Great.

I mean Hemingway would’ve hated it.

_Hence why I LOVE it._

**Forsythe P. Jones III (Client)**

The Hemingway hate. It still burns.

_Get used to it._

_P.S. Totally okay with taking you around New York today, as much as your schedule allows. What did they have planned for you today?_

**Forsythe P. Jones III (Client)**

The Loeb Boathouse at Central Park, a meeting, then I get to kill time between that and dinner.

_Where’s dinner?_

**Forsythe P. Jones III (Client)**

Eleven Madison Park.

_Ooh. Fancy!_

**Forsythe P. Jones III (Client)**

Very fancy.

In all honesty though, I would have rather had a decent pizza slice.

_That could be arranged. Shall I meet you sometime between your meeting and dinner?_

**Forsythe P. Jones III (Client)**

That would be great.

Then I guess I’ll see you after dinner at the penthouse?

Betty’s heart sped up, suddenly excited, but was soon sobered by the realisation that she and Jughead weren’t just two strangers who happened to be flirting with each other. He was her _client_ ; to him, she was an _escort_. At some point, yes, they were going to have sex. But it was going to be nothing more than a transaction - or, as Toni would have said, an exchange.

But there was no reason why she couldn’t allow herself to enjoy this, was there? If she’d been nervous the night before, surely it boded well that she now felt freer and more at ease with him? Didn’t that make the assignment easier?

She typed out a neutral reply. _Of course._ _See you then._

She frowned as she she looked down at their conversation, feeling a little out of sorts as she registered the formal tone given off by his full name. She went into her Contacts list, opening his profile, and by the time he sent her another message, she’d fixed it - his name was now the more familiar one that had been at the edge of her thoughts right before she fell asleep.

**Jughead**

Can’t wait.

…

Jughead cringed the moment he sent that message. He yelled at himself in the shower. He shook his head at his own reflection as he fixed his tie.

“ _Fucked_ it up, Jones,” he muttered at the mirror. “You just had to.”

Why the hell did he send that message? Why couldn’t he just have left it at her ‘see you then’? Why was he so easily carried away by what he felt for her?

 _She’s an escort, you idiot,_ he thought to himself. _She’s PAID to make you feel that way._

What way, precisely?

 _Like exhaling,_ he thought. _Like the lights were switched on in some forgotten corner of my soul._

His hands paused at his tie as those words reverberated in his mind.

 _Wait. Did that just… was that_ me?

He looked around frantically for a paper and pen before finding both on the bedside table. Quickly, he scrawled those words in his fine, spidery cursive, marvelling at the sight of his thoughts materialising on the page. It was strange, and exhilarating - he hadn’t written anything in years.

Jughead looked down at the finished product. Then, added a final sentence.

_Perhaps she was the light._

He put a date to the piece, before signing at the corner.

“You’re a cliche, Jughead,” he said sardonically out loud to himself. “Finding your muse in a prostitute? Classic Hemingway.”

Still, his own self-mockery did nothing to dull the edge of his sudden inspiration. He pulled out his old Moleskine writing notebook, sliding in the piece of paper before closing it and leaving it neatly on his bedside table.

Then, he remembered.

He grabbed his luggage nearby, unzipping the discreet side-pocket inside his luggage, reaching in to pull it out - a thick bundle of paper, stitched together to form a rudimentary notebook. On the front was a familiar, typewritten cover that he’d mocked up years and years ago, right after he finished college. The ink was beginning to fade, but the title was still clear.

_The Sweetness of Water_

_A collection of short stories by J. Jones_

His half-finished manuscript.

It had been so long. He’d taken it everywhere with him on his business travels all over the country, hoping to pick it up again. But he’d always been too tired, too exhausted, too bone-weary to get on with it. He kept it in his luggage, never bothering to unpack it. There’d been days when the blank pages he’d left at the back were an invitation. Recently, however, they were more of a taunt.

But apparently, not today.

He grabbed his Moleskine notebook. Taking the slip of paper out, he turned to the back of the manuscript and nestled the sheet inside, before turning his thoughts to the night before - in particular, the familiar, grey ‘S’ that peeked out from underneath Betty’s trenchcoat as she softly said good night.

He had a feeling he’d be writing tonight.

...

The driver from Bellamy & Bryce picked Jughead up at 11.00 from his hotel, a full hour before his reservation. “In case we get caught in traffic, Mr. Jones,” he said. “The Midtown crawl is a killer around this time.”

The driver’s worries turned out to be nothing more than conjectural; traffic was fine, and they arrived in Central Park in good time. Jughead had half an hour to himself before the reservation. Tipping his driver generously (“go have a decent lunch, man”), he decided to take a solitary walk through the park.

Somehow, however, he ended up hopelessly lost in the labyrinthine paths of Central Park. The maps made no sense - he kept circling around to the same oak tree, and after the fourth time, he decided he’d had enough.

Who was there to ask, though? He’d forgotten to take his driver’s phone number, and there was no way in hell he was going to ring the ad agency for directions.

 _Betty_.

The thought flustered him at first, but he rationalised that he had, after all, paid her to accompany him each day. A phone call wouldn’t be so unexpected, would it? He’d given her the morning off after they stayed up talking until 2 am, but surely calling in at noontime was a reasonable thing to do.

He dialed her number, his heart racing. Thankfully, Betty picked up after only two rings. “Jughead, hi!” she said, her voice breathy, as if she’d been running. It was alarmingly sexy.

 _Well. This is officially a bad idea._ “Uh, hi, Betty,” he said, trying to muster some sense of composure. “Sorry, did I catch you in the middle of something?”  


“No, no, you’re fine. I’m just crossing the street. What’s up?”

He took a deep breath. “Listen, I’m sorry to be calling so randomly - I know we were going to be meeting later on this afternoon - but I’m in a little bit of trouble here.”

“Of course. How can I help?”

He looked around him. “It’s a little embarrassing, but… I’m lost in Central Park.”

Her laugh - her brilliant, proper holler of a laugh - echoed through the phone, and he smiled in spite of himself. “Okay, where are you? What can you see?”

“I can see a whole bunch of kids… and, oh, Central Park Zoo.”

“And you’re supposed to be where…?”

“The Loeb Boathouse.”

“Oh.”

Silence. “‘Oh’ does not sound promising.”

“Um, no. It’s not.” She laughed again. “How the heck did you even get there?! Where did you get dropped off?”

“I actually have no clue,” he replied. “Would you be able to give me some directions? I’m really shitty at reading maps and a little too proud to ask someone here.”

“Hmm, it can get a bit tricky directing you over the phone,” she said. “Hey, how about… are you able to stay put for maybe, like, fifteen minutes?”

“Sure, why?”

“I’m sort of in the area - I can come get you and take you to the Boathouse after I finish running a few errands.”

“What? No!” he protested, although the thought of seeing Betty a little earlier than expected was certainly pleasing. “I’d feel terrible. And,” he laughed, “a little incompetent, to be honest.”

“Well, I mean… I _am_ supposed to be spending the day with you, you know.”

“Alright, yes, that _is_ true.”

“So is that okay? Unless you didn’t want to meet until later…?”

“No, I--” What choice did he have? “Look, as long as it’s not an inconvenience to you.”

“Not at all,” she said. “Stay there, right in front of the zoo gate. I’ll be with you soon.”

...

Betty must have been closer than he realised, because she was waving to him within ten minutes of hanging up on their phone call. His stomach plunged at the sight of her, which was becoming a routine for him now, except this time she was wearing a simple white buttoned shirt, knotted at the waist, and frayed denim cutoffs that showed off the same pair of legs that had been running through his head all morning. Her hair was bound up in a messy bun, with a red kerchief tied into a knot around her head. He knew she’d been running errands, and she certainly looked it, her face aglow with a fine sheen of sweat. Still, she looked every bit as bewitching as she did the night before.

 _When she was in my shirt,_ he reminded himself.

“Hey!” she said brightly. “You been waiting long?”

“No, not at all. Hey, thank you so much for finding me, Betty, you have no idea how–”

“Nonsense, you’re fine. Central Park is a bit of a labyrinth if you’re unfamiliar with it.”

He chuckled. “With a Minotaur at the end, I guess?” It was a dumb and obscure joke, and he wished that the earth would swallow him up, that he hadn’t said it... but he couldn’t help himself. He was obsessed with Greek mythology growing up, and the joke just sort of presented itself.

“Well, I don’t know about a Minotaur, but you’ll want to avoid the lunch-time joggers. They get really upset if you get in their way.”

Impressed, Jughead continued. “Alright, well then… lead the way, Ariadne.” _Okay. Maybe that was pushing it too far._

But, a miracle: she laughed. “Okay, Theseus. Although do try not to abandon me afterwards,” she said with a wink.

He stared at her as she traipsed on ahead of him, carefree and unaware that she’d just shaken his world with her easy knowledge of the myth of the Minotaur. _Well, great. She gets my stupid Greek allusions, too? Fuck. I am done for._

Determined not to lose composure, he caught up to her and gestured at her fabric tote bag. “So, uh, what’s in the bag?” he asked.

“Books, actually,” she said, smiling. “I was on my back from the Library.”

“Really? Can I have a look?”

She held onto the bag a little tightly before giving him a sideways smile. “That’s a little personal, don’t you think?”

“Hey, you picked up my copy of _The Sun Also Rises_ last night. Without my express consent, mind you.”

“That was one book!”

“Okay. Fine.” He stopped in his tracks, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Can I see _one_ book, then? Your choice.”

She arched an eyebrow coyly at him. “Does this count as your one personal question?”

“Well, technically this is a _request,_ not a question, you see.”

Betty playfully narrowed her eyes at him. “Alright then, mister. You win this round.”

“Oh, and,” he cleared his throat, “you can show me the book later when we, um... sit down to lunch.”

Betty’s head shot up. “Wait, what?”

“I called ahead and asked if the Loeb could accommodate lunch for two. To thank you for getting me out of this jungle.” He struggled not be nervous. _What if she said no?_ “I thought it might be... nice. I mean, we’re meant to be spending the next few days together, right?”

“That’s true, yes,” Betty replied. “But I feel bad - I’m the one who’s meant to be taking you around town, remember?”

“Yeah, well, technically, this arrangement is about... companionship, and that’s what you’ll be doing. Being my companion.”

She nodded at that. “Okay. Well, is it okay if the companion is dressed like this?” She gestured over her casual outfit. “I mean, the Loeb usually has to be lax because of all the tourists coming in, but _you_ look like _that._ And we don’t match.”

Jughead took his jacket off and loosened his tie, which he rolled up and pocketed before taking out a couple of buttons. He slung his jacket casually over his shoulder. “Alright, how about now? Casual enough?”

Betty smiled. “Perfect. Except--” And with that, she reached over and flicked a few buttons open. It was a little deeper than he was used to, but he wasn’t going to complain, not when it felt all too much like she was undressing him.

“Now you’re good,” she said. “Let’s go.”

…

 _Oh my god._ Betty walked quickly out in front of Jughead, mortified that she’d just _loosened his clothing in the middle of Central Park._

She had no idea what came over her. But it was all too easy to forget that this man wasn’t just some new friend she made in New York - an out-of-town stranger with whom she spent hours talking to as midnight broke into the early hours of the morning. He was, for all intents and purposes, a client.

Strangely enough, aside from being a little surprised, he didn’t seem to mind. But _she_ certainly did, spying the deep shadows on his chest that hinted at the lean muscularity beneath.

Which wasn’t helping her problem.

 _Stop it, Betty,_ she scolded herself. _This isn’t you. He’s not interacting with_ you. _You’re just playing a part. You’re an investigative journalist for_ Lilith _and you’re doing this for WORK. Yes, okay, he’s attractive. And goddamn it, he smells good. But you have to focus here._

“Hey,” he began. “So... I actually have no idea where I'd want to go these next few days. Now, I’d normally consult the Internet to try and figure out where I should go in this huge city, but I thought I’d ask you instead, if that’s okay?”

“Sure, shoot.”

“Okay, so what’s your favourite place in New York?”

“Like... my favourite borough or something?”

“No, sorry - a little more specific than that. A place.”

“Oh, gosh,” Betty said. “I have so many. All the usual places, I guess. Grand Central Station, Rockefeller Plaza in winter, the Brooklyn Museum, the New York Public Library. They’re all kinda cliched, but when you come from a small town, I think the cliched stuff is still fairly memorable.”

Jughead smiled down at her. It was hard not to take note, achingly, of how much _taller_ he was than her. “Yeah. I get that,” he said.

“And, you know, there’s other places that are sort of just _mine,_ you know? Like, there’s the touristy places I just mentioned, but there are a few that are a bit more off the grid, more up my alley.”

“Such as--?”

Betty opened and closed her mouth before smiling coyly at Jughead. “Well, if I tell you, they won’t be _my_ places, right?”

“That’s true,” he conceded. “Well, hopefully, you can tell me someday.”

 _Someday._ She ignored the word’s echo of the future. It was probably just a slip-up on his part - an attempt to be nice.

“We’ll see,” she said noncommittally. “Maybe.”

They walked on. Every now and then, Betty would point out some random feature of the Park, careful not to acknowledge the more personal histories she’d accumulated in its grounds, like the bench where she sat and cried at the end of her first, overwhelming week in New York, or the trail where she first bumped into Veronica, who was yelling expletives into her phone _and_ doing her morning run at the same time.

But it was proving difficult. Especially when there was no denying that _she_ wanted to know Jughead, too, and she knew that intimacy in a conversation went two ways. So as he told her a little bit more about where he had travelled, she volunteered her own experiences of travelling to England. She didn’t tell him the context of the trip (a six-month student exchange for college), still careful not to give away too much about herself.

For now, all that really mattered was that they both loved seeing Stonehenge alone, away from the maddening crowd, as the sun rose to cast long shadows over ancient stones.

…

Before long, the Loeb Boathouse reared into view, and they were stepping into its hallowed dining room. Jughead took in the view of the lake, dotted with couples rowing in boats. Beyond them, the full, green trees of Central Park rose up, mirrored in dappled figures in the water. It was ridiculously picturesque.

 _Well,_ he thought. _Pop’s doesn’t have_ that.

He was keenly aware of how he and Betty looked as a waiter ushered them both to their table - perhaps not quite a couple, given their somewhat mismatched outfits, but friends at the very least. Jughead liked that. He liked that there was an implied familiarity in the way they moved together.

He wasted no time as soon as their menus were taken away. He nudged at her fabric tote bag on the table. “So…?”

“Ah, the book, of course,” she said. “Give me a moment.”

She kept her eyes fixed on him, smiling coyly as she reached into her bag of books. When she placed her choice on the table, cover up, he was surprised. And smug.

“ _The Old Man and The Sea,”_ he said, slow and deliberate in his enunciation as he picked up the worn classic. “By your hated nemesis, Ernest Hemingway.”

“I know, I _know._ ”

“Uh-huh,” he said, leaning back, a twinkle in his eye. “well. Can’t say I’m not intrigued, Betty. You picked him apart last night and now you’re borrowing his book from the library?”

“Okay, fine _._ Maybe I was... a little hard on him.”

“A little!” He laughed. “You threw a fry at me!”

“Oh, god. I did, didn’t I? I completely blocked that out.” She hid her face in her hands. “I am so sorry.”

Jughead grinned. “You’re more than forgiven. Anyway, It was your last fry, and I ended up getting it, so the loss was entirely yours. What changed your mind?”

“Well, actually,” she said, taking the book from his hands. “It was this.”

Jughead leaned forward as Betty cleared her throat, the book open. “‘ _The old man fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream. But eighty-four days had elapsed and he hadn’t caught a single fish._ ’”

“The opening sentence.” He nodded, recognising it immediately. “What was so special about it for you?”

“Nothing, actually,” she said. “And that’s sort of the genius of it. It’s just... clean. _Pure_ , like you said. But still loaded, you know? He didn’t have to come out and state outright that the old man was desperate or hopeless or defeated. It was already there. Clear enough for the reader to see.”

He nodded steadily, careful not to show her his excitement.

“I know I said yesterday that I didn’t think handled depth very well, but maybe I’m wrong - at least in _this_ instance!” she said laughingly as he broke out into a smile, his smugness bubbled over to the surface. “I’m sorry, but I fully retain my opinion of _The Sun Also Rises._ ”

“Fine,” he replied. “That’s fair.”

“But I’m willing to concede what you said, about the purity and directness of his writing,” she said. “It’s about _showing_ , not telling, right?

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, it’s…” She hesitated for a moment, seemingly wanting to choose her words carefully. “It’s this old saying. For writers.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means…” She smiled. “It means to do what Hemingway does - avoid explaining your ideas to the reader. Let them figure it out instead. Through characters. Through narrative.”

“Isn’t that what every good writer should do, though?” Jughead asked.

“Yes, and no. Sometimes elaborating is important. Sometimes the reader craves eloquence. And then sometimes, one or two good lines is enough.”

His thoughts flashed to the piece of paper he had left folded in his Moleskine notebook back at the penthouse, the words that had materialised out of nowhere. “ _Like exhaling._ _Like the lights were switched on in some forgotten corner of my soul. Perhaps she was the light.”_

They were brief and rough, and nowhere near the thousands and thousands of words he had daydreamed of writing whenever he was stuck on a flight somewhere, or a boring meeting, or some bland hotel room. But the words never came out - they were lost and buried underneath all the number-crunching and strategy-building that came with his job and drained his soul.

But then she arrived at the door, and suddenly they were awakened again.

“Jughead?”

Her voice broke him out of his musings. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You’re phone’s ringing.”

He looked down. His dad.  _Great. Just what I needed._

“I’m sorry, I have to take this.” He got up and walked out of the restaurant, annoyed that he had to step away - even momentarily - from a conversation he was enjoying.

“Jughead,” his father said over the phone, “how are things? Bellamy and Bryce talk to you yet?”

“The meeting’s this afternoon,” he replied. “Provided they give us everything we asked for, I’m hoping to finalise and sign the contract by tomorrow, maybe arrange for one of them to fly down to Riverdale before they get their creative department to work on anything. Things going okay down there?”

“Yeah. We’re testing out a new batch of fuel cell auxiliary power units from a Japanese supplier down at the plant. They’re a hell of a lot cheaper than the ones we use now, which could mean that we lower the price on the next batch of Macombers.” The Macomber was Southside Motors’ signature truck, which FP had given Jughead the honour of naming.

“Good,” Jughead said, making a mental note of that for the meeting with the ad agency. A lower price was always a better sell. “That sounds great.”

“Hey, how ‘bout you? I know you hated the penthouse, but besides that, are they treating you well?”

_They sent me an escort. Her body’s on offer for me, but I want more than that._

“Uh, yeah. They’re treating me well.”

“Good. Good.”

An awkward silence ensued, which Jughead had noticed was becoming more frequent between the two of them. Normally, this was fine; he was easy with silences, but more and more, he was beginning to notice that beyond the business of Southside, his father didn’t really know how to _talk_ to him. He didn’t know how to ask him what he wanted, or whether this business with the company was what he actually wanted to do with his life. He reasoned that perhaps it was easier for his father to talk about business than it was to confront the needs and desires of a son he never really understood. As for him, it was much easier to let that be, to go along with the wishes of his father than to admit that he was someplace in his life where he felt stuck and directionless.

But that wasn’t getting easier. Especially not now _,_ when he faced with something - _someone_ \- that he desired, and it was opening up a dusty corner in his heart that remembered that he could _have_ desires.

“Dad, I…” he started. What else could he really say? “I gotta go.”

“Yeah,” FP replied. “Hey, uh... go knock ‘em dead, kid.”

“Yep.” With that, the call ended.

Jughead took a deep breath before heading back into the restaurant. His meeting with Bellamy and Bryce was drawing closer, and between that and the phone call from his dad, he just wanted to get back to Betty.

But something was different when he stepped into the dining room. Standing next to Betty was a broad, well-suited fellow who was chatting animatedly with her, his hand resting on her shoulder. With a pang, he concluded that it must be one of her other clients.

In a flash of competitive spite that surprised even him, Jughead appraised and priced him from head to toe. _Ralph Lauren suit, regular-fit wool. Decent. Shirt is generic though, store-bought. Oxfords need a decent polish._ He held himself a little higher as he strode closer, fixing his face into what he hoped was a neutral expression.

Betty glanced up, and to his surprise, looked somewhat panicked. The man turned around, seemingly surprised before grinning with delight. That was strange. “Oh, you’re back,” she said. He wasn’t wrong about the panic - Betty’s voice took on a slightly agitated edge.

“I am,” he said coolly before turning to the man and extending a hand. “Forsythe Jones. And you are…?”

“Um, literally _bursting with excitement,_ ” the guy replied as he met his handshake enthusiastically. “Do you know how long I’ve been pestering this babe to go on a date?!”

_A date?_

He looked over at Betty, who smiled weakly at him.

“I’m sorry, what?” he said.

“Forsythe,” she said pointedly, “this is the friend I was telling you about. Kevin Keller.”


	5. the retreat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **retreat (n.)**
> 
> a place of rest and solitude.

The Loeb Boathouse was the last place that Betty had expected to see Kevin, who, over the years, had cultivated a distinctive New York snobbishness. He’d moved to Manhattan right before he started high school, when his father - a former sheriff - took up a post in the NYPD. While he wasn’t quite New York born-and-bred like Veronica, he had inherited many of its residents’ signature traits - a brisk, purposeful walk bordering on a light jog, a running commentary on the dismal state of the subway, and a deep-seated disdain for tourist traps like the Boathouse.

“Betty?!” he asked incredulously as he walked past her.

She looked up. _Oh, god._ She thanked her lucky stars that Jughead was outside taking a call. It gave her more time to formulate a story. Kevin, of course, had no idea about her undercover assignment - no-one did. That was part of the conditions.

“Kev, hi!” she said brightly, trying to mask her panic. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh _god_ , I know, right? It’s even tackier than I remembered.” Betty smiled tightly at that. She may have lived in New York since the start of college, but the Boathouse still held a certain mystique for a small-town girl like her. She happened to find it beautiful.

“Uh, sure, yeah,” she replied. “You’re having lunch here?”

“Yes, with _Joaquin,_ actually,” Kevin replied, his eyes shimmering mischievously. “He’s from _Toledo_ , did I ever tell you that? He moved here only recently to work for _GQ._ Anyway, he was hanging around my floor today and he mentioned that he’d never been here before, so, you know, like a total tramp, I volunteered myself as tribute.” At that, he did a happy little jig on the spot.

Betty laughed. “So it’s a date?”

“I’ll count it as one. It’s going really well.” He grinned while subtly cocking his head to the right. “He’s behind me, next to the woman in the pink. See him?”

She tipped her head slightly to look behind Kevin. “Ooh, I do. Very cute.”

“Right? Wait ‘til you see his eyes. That shade of blue is the next millennial pink.” He sighed dramatically. “Anyway, what are _you_ doing here?”

_Shit, that’s right._ Betty racked her brain for a story. The easy excuse would have been that she was interviewing someone for an article (which, she realised with a slight pang, was technically true in this case), but Kevin was a writer, too - he would have started asking questions immediately. Besides, what interest would _Lilith_ have in a car mogul?

“I’m...” Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Jughead coming back in.

_Shit shit shit. This is happening, isn’t it?_

She cleared her throat and stared up defiantly at Kevin. “I’m, ah, on a date, too, actually.”

His jaw dropped. “No. Fucking. Way.”

Betty only shrugged enigmatically.

“ELIZABETH COOPER, you sneaky, sneaky woman! Oh my god, so he’s here right now?!”

“He’s actually, um…” She nodded in Jughead’s direction as he came right up behind Kevin. For a flash of a second, she spied his furrowed brow, his clenched jaw and the slight daze in his eyes.

She realised then what it must have looked like. Kevin was suited up from work and was dressed just like Jughead was - a young businessman flush with success, perhaps another client like him. Things could have gotten complicated quickly, but Kevin whirled around with such outright panache that there was no doubting the fact that he had zero interest in Betty’s “services”. Before she realised what was happening, they were talking. Or, in Kevin’s case, yelling.

“Do you know long I’ve been pestering this babe to go on a date?!” he squealed at a bewildered Jughead, who’d barely finished introducing himself.

Jughead turned to her. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Forsythe,” she said, hoping he could pick up on the story she was frantically weaving on the spot. “This is the friend I was telling you about. Kevin Keller.”

_Please play along,_ she pleaded silently. For a small, still moment, her world hung on Jughead’s silence. To her relief, he turned to Kevin and immediately stuck out his hand. “Of course, how could I forget? Nice to meet you, Kevin.”

“Ooh, and you, too,” Kevin replied. “My god. What dark magic did you manage to conjure to get this girl out?”

“Oh, I…” Jughead caught Betty’s eye, and smiled. “I just got lucky, I guess.”

Kevin was positively thrumming. “I mean, _duh,_ but like… how?! Bumble? OKCupid? Tinder? No, wait - old-fashioned friend-of-a-friend meetup?”

“Uh, yes. Friend of a friend,” Betty volunteered, which she realised was perversely true in this case. “Jug’s from out of town and I was showing him around, and… this sort of just happened.”

“Actually, it’s only our second date, but it’s going great,” Jughead added. “She’s amazing.”

Betty realised from the way Kevin was looking at her with stars in his eyes that her own grin was genuine - that she was authentically giddy, and didn’t have to pretend for his sake. There was something about the way that Jughead went ahead and owned her story _and_ called her amazing (she ignored that that was probably an exaggeration) that made her feel a rush of tenderness towards him.

“Well, speaking of dates, I’m neglecting my own over there,” Kevin said. “But this is _major,_ Betty. You’re coming out with me for cocktails next week to tell me everything.”

“Oh, absolutely. Sure thing,” she replied confidently. There’d be nothing to tell. _It’ll all be over by then, anyway,_ she thought, her own sadness surprising her.

“We’ll talk soon. And Forsythe, again, great to meet you,” Kevin said before shaking Jughead’s hand. He traipsed off in Joaquin’s direction, but not before turning around to look at Betty and giving her an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

“So,” Jughead began as he sat back down, “friend of yours, I assume?”

“Yep. That’s my buddy Kevin.”

The tense knot in her stomach dissolved as he sat down. Soon, their waiter arrived with their lunch - eggs benedict for her, fish and chips for him. He got into his meal straight away, and she couldn’t help but giggle to herself as he wolfed down his meal with intense gusto. Realising she was looking at him, he glanced up. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said, smiling.

“No, seriously, now I’m feeling self-conscious,” he said, putting his fork down and returning her grin. “What is it?”

“It’s just… you eat really fast. I noticed yesterday as well.”

“Oh. Really?”

She laughed. “Yes. You do.”

He stared at her plate, then his own for comparison. “Huh. Well, there you go.”

“I guess you get pretty hungry, huh?”

“Yeah, there is that, and also, I can’t really tell how fast I’m eating most of the time,” he said, shrugging. “I usually eat alone.”

Betty winced inwardly as she realised that her well-meaning jest had somehow unearthed this sad revelation. “Oh, god. I’m sorry.”

“Whoa, hey, I did _not_ mean for that to get sad,” he said with a sardonic laugh. “I was just being honest. It’s a fairly solitary job, but... I’m happy.”

Betty was skeptical. “You are?”

“I mean, happy as anyone could be in their job. Which is not much, right?” He looked at her. “Are _you_ happy in yours?”

Betty thought about it. _I don’t know, things are pretty good in_ Lilith _, I guess? Sure, Toni’s pushing us all hard, but in general--_

_Oh, wait._

_He means THIS job._

Flustered by the mental slip, she practically tripped over her response. “Oh, yeah. Sure. You know. The normal amount, I guess.”

He nodded, fixing a piercing gaze on her that she had no idea how to read. “Alright. Can I ask you my personal question now, then?”

Betty lowered her cutlery. _Okay. Here goes._ “Sure. Go on.”

He cleared his throat, leaning forward. “Is there a reason why your friend Kevin doesn’t seem to know what it is that you do?”

That took her aback. It wasn’t what she was expecting. She thought he’d ask about the reasons why she became what she became. Why she was, supposedly, an escort. She expected him to question her, maybe even judge her a little bit… not to be _curious_ about her.

“Look,” he continued. “You don’t have to answer. For the record, I truly don’t mind pretending to be your date. I don’t.”

_Neither do I,_ she heard her mind whisper.

“But… I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I’m just wondering.”

Betty thought about it carefully, wanting to give the right answer. She mentally flipped through all the stories she’d heard from Penelope in the hours they spent together as she prepared for her undercover role - of how much her work empowered her personally, but also how hard she had to fight to find her own dignity within it.

“Well,” she began. “Sex work is still fairly stigmatised and shamed. No-one likes to claim that they do it, or that they benefit from it. That’s a big part of it.”

Jughead nodded, gesturing for her to go on.

“And look, I guess…”

And... that was it: she’d come to a dead end. She was stumped. It was odd - she had prepared an elaborate narrative for this very moment, but in that split second as she paused, she felt nothing but a sinking sensation within her.

But _why_ ? Was it because it just didn’t sit well with her anymore - lying to him outright? _You’re lying to him NOW,_ she told herself. But even she knew that there was a world of difference between maintaining the ruse under which they’d met, and deceiving him intentionally. And she just couldn’t go on with the latter - not after they’d stayed up eating fries and debating literature all night. Not after they’d inadvertently shown each other parts of themselves, sometimes without meaning to. He may have started out as a blank face behind a door, but now, he wasn’t just that - he was ocean eyes and piles of books and a soft cotton shirt whose smell she loved so much that she’d conveniently forgotten to toss into the laundry that morning.

_This is why it was only going to be one night,_ she thought. _The less attachment, the better._

But she knew, too, that there had to be more. For some unknown reason, something in her bristled at telling him a story that wasn’t her own. She _wanted_ him to know who she was. She _wanted_ him to see her, the real her, and not just this projection of a role she’d taken on.

_But, again,_ she thought frustratedly, _why?!_

“Uh, Betty?”

Jughead’s voice cut through her thoughts, reminding her that she’d left her last sentence hanging in the air. She shook her head, warding off her distracted musings, embarrassed that she’d been caught with her head in the clouds. “I’m sorry, I drifted off,” she said. “God, I explained that really badly, didn’t I?”

“No, it makes sense,” he said. “Please. You don’t have to explain anymore. I actually wasn’t expecting you to answer, but I thought I’d give it a shot anyway.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Underneath the table, he nudged her foot. She pinpointed, in her mind, the exact spot where that landed - it tingled. “Betty, we agreed, right? You don’t need to tell me anything you don’t want me to know.” He seemed to struggle against his words, with whatever was to come out next, before he sighed and seemingly gave in to it. “I just… I find you really interesting, that’s all.”

_Interesting._ He called her _interesting_.

For a moment, Betty could not muster an answer. How could she, when her skin was prickling with heat, despite the cool breeze wafting in from outside? She cleared her throat, mentally yelling at herself to say something, _anything._

“Well, you’re… a curious commodity, Mr. Jones.”

He smiled softly. “Jughead.”

She picked up her glass, and before drinking, she returned his smile. “Jug.”

“Even better.”

They nodded at each other before returning to their lunch, a still, pleasant quiet settling between them. Betty _had_ to eat, if only to suppress her constant urge to smile. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Jughead kept stealing quick, furtive glances at her. It had all the simmering tension and giddy awkwardness of a date. _Maybe we weren’t lying to Kevin about being on a date after all._

“Hey,” she said, breaking the silence. “Thank you for earlier.”

“For what, exactly?”

“For going with my story. And… asking about what I do. Respectfully.”

He looked a little puzzled, as though it hadn’t occurred to him to ask any other way. “Of course.”

Betty took a deep breath. “Look, I’ve never done this before - been with a client for this long.” _Truth._ “I don’t mind having these discussions, but… I don’t know if it’s asking for too much, but could we just maybe pretend that I’m not this job and you’re not yours, and just be _around_ each other? Sort of like how we were last night?”

It was a slip - an indirect admission that there was something in the air between them the night before. But she realised, with a jolt, that she didn’t care. She may not have _directly_ said that she found him interesting - that he intrigued her, too - but she might as well have. And it made it her feel vulnerable, and a little scared.

But, as it turned out, there was no need to feel scared, because there was no mistaking the need and relief in his voice as he leaned forward, his thumb inadvertently brushing against her wrist, startling her. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but unmistakably thrilled.

“I’d like that.”

…

In the car, Jughead almost forgot that he was heading into one of the most important meetings of Southside Motors’ relatively short life.

Seeing his rolled up sleeves and buttoned-down shirt, his driver inquired whether he’d be needing to make a stop by the hotel to change his attire. Jughead was surprised when he looked down at his outfit, remembering that his tie was rolled up in his pocket and probably needed to go back on, along with his jacket.

“There’ll be no need,” he said. “Just straight to Bellamy and Bryce, if that’s okay.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Jones,” the driver replied. “You had a good time at the Boathouse?”  

_Not at the Boathouse,_ he thought. Outside of it, at the door, when Betty looked up at him and said, her voice low and with no trace of the businesslike nature of their arrangement, “I’ll see you later.”

“It was good,” he replied to the driver. “Food was decent.” _At least I think it was. What the fuck did I even order?_

“You looking forward to tonight, then?”

Jughead knew that the driver was asking about Eleven Madison Park - three Michelin stars, once number one on World’s Best Fifty Restaurants. But even his legendary appetite could not compete with the anticipation building in his body - the skittish excitement he felt as he thought about seeing Betty again.

“Yeah,” he said, catching his smiling reflection in the tinted window. “I am.”

…

Hours later, though, he was fuming.

He was supposed to be in and out of this meeting, in time to meet Betty at the Museum of Modern Art before dinner, where she promised to show him some of her favourite paintings. Their arrangement was supposed to be made up primarily of this - her playing tour guide, him following her around, and at night, a brief romp in the sheets. Cancelling shouldn’t have been a big deal (after all, this was strictly business, at least theoretically) but they were connecting really well at lunch, and he was excited to pick up where they left off.

Instead, he had to reiterate, for what seemed like the hundredth time, why there was no way he was greenlighting any concept art that got rid of the company’s “Made In Riverdale” tagline.

“Gentlemen, it’s simple,” he said. “Either you let us keep the tagline, or I take this account elsewhere. We are not budging on this.”

“Mr. Jones, if I may,” a young executive piped up, “Your father’s brief for the campaign was something that would take Southside Motors global. No offense, but _we_ barely knew where Riverdale was. How are we going to expect someone in, say, Shanghai or Milan to understand that tagline?”

“They won’t, but they _will_ , and that’s the point,” Jughead countered. “We’re putting Riverdale on the map. That’s the whole identity of Southside Motors. And quite frankly, if you don’t understand that, I’m not sure what we’re doing here.”

The table was quiet as Jughead picked up one of the boards with the concept art. “Here’s what you’re going to do for me. You’re gonna take this and rush it down to creative and find a place for our tagline. I like this, but ‘Made in Riverdale’ is non-negotiable. It’s either that, or I’m returning calls to Olson and Kent this afternoon.”

The name of their nemesis firm sent a frisson of panic down the long boarding room table.

“With all due respect, Mr. Jones,” the young executive said, clearly flustered, “That’ll take us a couple of hours. Yours isn’t our only account on the books.”

Jughead regarded him coolly. “You’re right. But with all due respect to _you,_ we’d be your single _biggest_ account at the end of the day, if you do your job properly.”

The executive backed down, reddening in his seat.

“I’m a patient man,” Jughead said, leaning back. “I’ll wait.”

…

**Jughead**

         Betty, I’m sorry. I’m stuck in this meeting until dinner. Will have to postpone MOMA for another day.

Betty was at her desk at _Lilith,_ picking up a few things - stray receipts for filing, her spare phone charger - when the text came through. She felt her shoulders sag with disappointment: she was looking forward to showing Jughead the Museum’s Pollock collection.

Veronica was recounting a run-in with some celebrity PA when she noticed Betty’s fallen expression. “B? Everything okay?”

“Uh, hang on,” Betty replied distractedly, typing out a quick reply. _I’ll meet you at the Greenwich then?_ “Nothing, sorry, let me just…”

“Ooh. Is this Mr. Man?”

“You mean Jughead?”

Veronica gave her a funny look. “Jughead? Who’s that?”

_Idiot. Of course she doesn’t know his name._ Betty kept forgetting that there was a world outside of her and Jughead - _two_ worlds, in fact: one in which she was an escort, and another in which she was an undercover reporter chasing a story.

“Sorry, never mind. I meant Forsythe. The client.”

“Ah,” Veronica replied, with a quick nod. “Jughead - is that his nickname?”

“Yep.”

“How’d he get it?”

“I…” She trailed off, realising that she didn’t know. _I guess that’s my personal question for tonight._ “You know what? I’ll ask him tonight.”

“Tonight?” Veronica gave her a curious look. “Oh, of course - I keep forgetting you’re with him for the whole week.”

“Well, just four days, actually.”

“Right, right.” Veronica nodded thoughtfully before fixing her dark-eyed gaze on her friend. “Hey, Betty, how _are_ you? With this whole undercover thing? I know I wasn’t very supportive at the start, but… you know I worry about you. For the record, I think you were really gutsy stepping into this. It’s a huge thing. And _so_ important.”

“Thanks, V.” Betty reached over and squeezed her friend’s hand gratefully. “I’m fine, to be honest with you.” She didn’t add, _more than fine._ Or, _I’m actually enjoying myself._

“I’m so glad,” Veronica replied. “It hasn’t been weird, has it? What’s the guy like?”

“No, not weird. He’s…” Betty struggled for words, so she reached for the most obvious one. “Young. Like, our age, give or take a few years.”

Veronica gave her a funny look. “Okay. But what does he actually do? Is he from out of town?”

“Yes, he’s here on business,” Betty replied. “Actually, he’s representing Southside Motors.”

Veronica’s eyes widened. “ _Southside Motors_? Oh, my god. My stocks guy actually asked me the other week if I wanted to invest in the company. They’re on the rise, Betty. Everyone’s going hybrid these days, and they’re the only one with a decent truck on the market.”

Betty looked at her skeptically. “How do you know so much about trucks?”

Veronica shrugged. “When Archie was buying a new truck, I had to help him create his Excel spreadsheet when he was comparing models,” she replied.

“I see,” Betty said, before giving her a sideways smile. “You _do_ know Archie probably knows how to create an Excel spreadsheet, right?”

Veronica smiled back. “I know.”

“Oh, V. You two need to stop messing around and make it real, and soon. It’s too cute.”

“We will, once Reggie stops being such a cute distraction,” Veronica said, laughing, “but that’s not the point of the discussion here. Don’t think I’m not seeing what you’re doing here, B.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“The Classic Cooper tactic - dodging the real questions while keeping your cards close to your chest. That was masterful, actually.”

“What?! How am I--”

“Hey, look. I don’t know what’s going on with you and this Jughead, but ‘young’ is not a word that articulate, elite journalist Elizabeth Cooper would use to describe a guy, unless she was grasping for something absurdly neutral.” Veronica crossed her arms and leaned back on her desk. “And you, Betty, are far too passionate to be neutral.”

Betty carefully kept her face blank.

“So,” Veronica continued, “it stands to reasons that either you hate this guy intensely, which is highly unlikely since you haven’t come right out and said it, or…”

Betty looked at her warily. “Or what?”

“I think that’s for _you_ to figure out, babe.”

Betty was silent - a little mad that her best friend had pegged her so accurately, but more so overwhelmed by what it implied. Of course she wasn’t neutral about Jughead - she’d thought of him that very morning, as she lingered in bed wearing his shirt, going over every detail of their conversation from the night before. She sure as hell didn’t hate him either, which left…

_What?_

Her phone suddenly vibrated on her desk. She snatched it up quickly, ignoring Veronica’s smug expression.

**Jughead**

        Yes. I’ll leave word at the front desk to let you in. I’ll be back by 8.30.

Veronica looked over at her text. “Is he having dinner beforehand?”

“Yeah, at Eleven Madison Park.”

“Whoa, fancy. And he says he’s coming back to the Greenwich Hotel by 8.30?”

“Yes,” Betty replied, turning to her. “I’m sorry, does that mean something?”

“Uh, yes. Sittings at Eleven start strictly at 6.30 and 8.30. I’m assuming he’s booked for the 6.30.”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Veronica gestured wildly with her hands. “Um?! Hello?!”

“V, if I knew _what the hell_ you were talking about, I’d be excited, too.”

“So you’re saying you _do_ want to get excited.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Betty replied, giving her a little shove. “Come on. What’s the big deal about coming back to the Greenwich at 8.30?”

Veronica exhaled and clasped her hands in a mockery of patience, before turning to her friend. “They only do degustations, Betty - long dinners with multiple courses. I’ve been there before. The entire meal takes at least _ninety minutes._ So between Madison Avenue and SoHo, where the Greenwich is, you’re looking at upwards to twenty minutes of travel. Which means he’ll have to be _running_ out of there - sprinting, really - to get back to the Greenwich Hotel by 8.30.”

Betty silently digested this.

“If this is a business dinner, he’d want to hang around, right? Unless, of course, it’s a done deal. Or…” Veronica trailed off and grinned at Betty.

“Or _what_?”

“Or there’s something he’s hurrying back for,” she said. “Something he _likes._  Something that just couldn’t wait.”

…

Jughead abhorred business dinners, but, like most things in his life, that didn’t mean he neglected trying to be good at them. Using the sharp observational skills he’d honed over his lifetime, he always managed to pinpoint some common interest within the group he happened to be sitting with, stirring it up just enough so that _he_ wouldn’t have to talk much.

But not tonight. He was in no mood for celebrating, much less talking. As expected, he’d closed the deal with Bellamy and Bryce, getting a favourable price for print, digital and television advertising for the next five years (with the tagline intact, as stipulated). He got what he wanted: the Southside was finally becoming a legitimate force.

Still, he could barely muster any energy to be pleasant or convivial, to whisk the conversation to life. His mind was somewhere else, fixated on the blonde he’d be coming back to that night. Mentally, he listed all the questions he wanted to ask her: what was her favourite Austen book, and why? Did she like Franz Kafka? If she could pick between Kierkegaard, Nietzsche and Sartre, who would she have dinner with? And would she agree with him that _Wuthering Heights_ was infinitely better than _Jane Eyre?_

“...so what do you say, Mr. Jones?”

The voice of the young executive he’d upbraided earlier broke through his thoughts, and he looked around and realised that everyone around the table was looking at him, smiling as they held identical glasses filled with a light amber liquid.

_Sake,_ he thought, his stomach sinking as he recognised the distinct aroma of the Japanese rice wine. Looking down, he realised he had also been given a glass.

With a flash, the smell triggered a memory: his father slumped over his desk, a glass of sake still sitting in his hand as he snored - a cheap consolation gift from a Japanese car parts supplier who reneged on a deal, setting the company back and putting them further into debt. Jughead had plucked it out of his hand that night and dragged his father to his bedroom, swearing to himself to do whatever it took to keep his dad - and Southside Motors - from the brink. And then he’d return to his own dreams.

That was five years ago.

And now here he was, getting the company to where he wanted it to be, surrounded by the very vice he had sworn he would keep his father from. The glass in front of him was a taunt: _You can’t run away from this._ The faces around the table seemed to take on a sinister quality, and the very lights of the restaurant seemed to dim.

_No,_ he thought defiantly. _I’m getting out._

He pushed the glass away. “I’m sorry, gentlemen,” he said. “I don’t drink.”

…

Betty fretted over the candles that the staff at the Greenwich had lit in the penthouse. A housekeeping staff member had been startled when Betty entered, scurrying out apologetically as the elevator closed.

As she got changed, she wondered whether to keep them lit or simply blow them out. They cast a beautiful golden glow about the stone-coloured room, making it seem warmer and more intimate. Catching her reflection in the mirror in the hallway, she saw that they flickered beautifully off her bare legs, which were peeking out from underneath Jughead’s S shirt - a choice she had picked over another ridiculous La Perla ensemble purchased by Veronica. Walking on, she saw that rose petals had been scattered all over the penthouse, including - she checked - the huge king bed in the main bedroom. In the living room, a bottle of Moët & Chandon lay glistening in an ice bucket, with two glasses next to it.

_Wow,_ she thought. _I guess we’re not just talking tonight, then._

The night before, when they first met, she’d been a bundle of taut nerve. She hardly knew whether she could even go ahead with the whole thing. She was a little relieved to see Jughead when the elevator doors parted - to see that he was handsome and attractive and someone she could maybe have a decent time with. Still, that didn’t do much to dilute her jittery nervousness.

But _now…_

Any panic was subsumed by the heat that she felt coursing throughout her body at the mere thought of him touching her. She imagined seeing his shirt parted, buttons clattering on the floor as she pulled it open to survey the strong lines of his bare chest, then leaning back to see his mouth parted, eyes darkened with lust. She allowed herself, for a moment, to picture the sensation of his strong hands around her waist, on her breasts, tangled in her hair. In her mind, she heard his voice low in her ear, catching slightly as his breath sped up, rhythm building between their bodies…

_Stop it,_ she told herself, running her hands through her hair in frustration as she flopped down onto the couch. It was one thing to sleep with a guy for money and research and to find him interesting. It was quite another to bring actual _desire_ into the picture.

_What are you doing, Betty Cooper?_

But she had no time to think about it, no time to analyse how she actually felt, when the elevator opened with a whoosh, and in he walked.

“Jughead?” she called out.

He looked in her direction. In the candlelit darkness, she could only see the outline of his figure, but there was something off about it - the lines were looser, wilder, as if he was a rough sketch rather than a fully realised drawing. His shoulders were slumped, his voice registering exhaustion.

“Hey,” he said. “Where are you?”

“Over here. On the couch. Follow my voice.”

Jughead walked slowly towards her. Her earlier assumption was right - his face looked drawn, pale and fallen. His clothes were rumpled. One of his crown cufflinks sat slightly askew, and it surprised her that it hadn’t fallen right off. He took his place on the couch next to her. For a moment, they sat in silence.

“So, how did it go?” Betty asked tentatively.

He scoffed. “Well enough, I guess.”

She caught the cynicism in his voice. She wondered whether to stay silent, or to get up and fix him a drink, or distract him with some light conversation. But it seemed as though he was begging for someone to take the burden of the day off his shoulders, to ask him if he was alright.

“How do you feel?”

He exhaled, and in that breath she heard a million things - frustration, disappointment, discontent, _defeat._ He turned to her, and his gaze was lost and directionless.

“Tired,” he replied. “I’m just tired, Betty.”

And with that, he kicked off his shoes, and laid his head down on her lap.

Betty froze.

Her mind was running through thought after thought - none of them coherent - while her heart raced from the sudden contact, skin jumping at his touch. She was still wired from the earlier revelation of wanting him, of knowing that she desired him, and now… this? His cheek was grazing her skin, lips tantalisingly close, and the warmth of his breath was caressing her leg...

But most startlingly of all, here he was, raw and unguarded, his soul suddenly bared wide open, inviting her to look in.

Hesitantly at first, then with the certainty of knowing that it was exactly what she wanted do, she ran her fingers through his hair, gentle and slow, pressing here and there to alleviate the tension in his muscles. She raked her nails down the back of his neck, daring to slip a little below the collar of his shirt, feeling the warmth, the fine down of his skin. She felt his body relax beneath her touch, his breathing steadier, tension released.

“Tell me about your day,” she whispered, as she watched him close his eyes. “I’m here all night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for continuing to read this fic, dear reader! I know that this has been quite the slow burn, so I hope you enjoyed that little glimpse of tenderness you got at the end. It won’t be the last, I promise. 
> 
> For anyone interested, I've created a Spotify playlist for this fic [here.](https://open.spotify.com/user/31kgdgzysdrr96rja6xfxsuo1/playlist/1USc8SIoRu55gufB8obwjj?si=YqNrD-3OQPi0oT0UhQHhHg) I highly recommend Alicia Keys' "Diary" for the final scene.
> 
> I hope you also enjoyed that little nod to Joavin at the start! I’m still a little heartbroken over the demise of our beautiful blue-eyed boy - I truly thought that he and Kevin were one of the most underrated ships on the show. So it was nice for me personally to see them have an adorable date in New York (no matter how tacky Kevin finds the Boathouse - an opinion which, by the way, I do not share. The Boathouse is cool, Kev!). 
> 
> The conversation between Betty and Jughead about her supposed job as an escort is HUGE for their characterisation in this fic, but it was also a way for me to continue dealing with some of the issues presented in this fic. My hope is that I did this as respectfully as possible.
> 
> Eleven Madison Park does degustations of 8-10 courses, so the whole timing situation that Veronica was using to make a point about how much Jug wanted to see Betty was probably close-ish to the truth. The travel time between the restaurant and the Greenwich was an estimate made based on Google Maps.
> 
> Did you enjoy the chapter, reader? Are these two frustrating you? Are you joining me in yelling at them to JUST KISS? Haha. Let me know in the comments!


	6. the reciprocal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **reciprocal (adj.)**
> 
> mutual.

Soft, pliant flesh. That’s what Jughead was dreaming of. More specifically, Betty’s: her skin against his cheek, and the air around them so still that he could feel the persistent pulse beneath.

She smelled just as he remembered from that first night they met. The scent reminded him still of flowers - fields and fields of flowers beneath a bright blue sky, studded through with tinges of amber and citrus. A golden, perfect day.

Looking back, perhaps it wasn’t the scent that imprinted itself on him - rather, the contradiction. The incongruence. Between what he expected and what he encountered.

But now was not the time for dwelling on that. Not when he was caught up in this dream. Not when he felt safe and warm and completely at peace.

_For God’s sake, don’t wake up,_ he told himself. The dream felt good. It felt edged by reality - the kind that was lucid enough to remember and write on paper, once he returned to consciousness.

And then he heard her cough.

He felt the jolt of it reverberate through her body, jolting _his._

And he realised he was already awake.

…

Jughead had travelled extensively enough to hear, confirm and debunk every geographical stereotype in the car business: Texans drove a hard bargain, but were honest and fair (mostly true). Californians seemed relaxed, but they lulled you into a false sense of security before moving in for the kill (also true). As for New Yorkers, _well_. No-one worked harder, but no-one partied harder, either.

_They certainly drink harder,_ Jughead thought as he watched Bellamy and Bryce’s executives order round after round of premium saké throughout the meal. Supposedly, it was a celebration, although Jughead wondered bemusedly whether they actually understood the fact that he’d arm-wrestled them to a deal that was far more beneficial for Southside Motors than it was for them.

Before long, the company’s Head of Creative turned to the waitress and asked for the house whiskey. When she brought it back, the stench wafted towards Jughead, and he nearly gagged. Whiskey was FP’s favourite. The sharp wooden smell of it triggered memories of his father’s struggle with his disease and the many times he’d had to pull him back from lapsing. _I’ve had enough,_ he thought. He had to leave.

After two quick bites of dessert - a playful take on various textures of honeycomb that he would have enjoyed otherwise - he wiped his mouth with his napkin, dropped it on the table, and stood up to collect his jacket. “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure,” he said as the men around the table staged a half-hearted protest. “My apologies, but early morning business calls me.”

_And I need to get the fuck out of here before I hurl._

He crumpled into his seat as soon as the driver closed his door. “Where to, Mr. Jones?”

“Back to the Greenwich,” he said. “Quickest way you can find. Please.”

He was spent. He barely knew how he got up to the penthouse, how he made his way through the candlelit darkness, stumbling towards Betty (he noted, despite his weariness, despite how dark it was, the illuminated S of his shirt on her).

“Tell me about your day,” she had whispered to him, when he’d laid himself down. “I’m here all night.”

But what was there to say? Everything about his day carried the obvious fragrance of victory - a triumphant advertising deal, a celebratory dinner at one of the most expensive restaurants in the city, a limousine to drive him home to the penthouse.

And yet nothing felt as satisfying as _now,_ the simple intimacy of his head in her lap, her fingers trailing lazy circles into his scalp, sending tremors of ache through his body.

_It would be easy,_ he thought. _So easy._ To reach up and give her a look, to let her know that he wanted her gasping at his touch, bending beneath him, writhing at his whim.

But he didn’t want that.

Or at least, he didn’t want _just_ that.

He wanted mornings with her. He wanted to see her wake up in his bed, in his shirt, stretching elegantly amongst the sheets. He wanted breakfast together and a shared plunger of coffee. He wanted to hold her hand in the dark of a theatre. He wanted her to tell him every single book she’d ever read so he could run out and buy them and read them and read _her._

And most of all, he wanted her to want him, too. Not because he’d paid her, or because it was her job. But because he desperately wanted to know that he wasn’t just imagining this - whatever _this_ was. That what he felt wasn’t just real, but _reciprocated_.

But of course, he couldn’t tell her all that. So he settled instead for telling her what was easiest, but also honest.

“My day was fine.” He dropped his arm down, fingers grazing her bare ankle. “But this is the best part.”

…

After several attempts, Betty gave up on trying to grab her phone.

It was on the coffee table, just out of reach for her - impossible to grab even if she’d tried reaching for it with her long legs, which were tucked underneath a slightly snoring Jughead.

She glanced down. He had fallen asleep soon after their brief exchange, and this close, she realised how young he looked beneath the facade of his suits. Lightly, she traced the constellation of moles on his cheek, his chin and his neck. He stirred and mumbled a little at her touch, and she jerked her hand back before thinking better of it, resting her fingers against the bared skin of his shoulder.

He was a mess; certainly not drunk, but exhausted to the point of fatigue. She had no idea why. He seemed like he was successful at his job, but it also seemed to take so much out of him. She remembered the business call he took outside the Loeb Boathouse, the stormy expression he wore when he walked back in. It didn’t seem like something he enjoyed doing; it seemed like a _nuisance._

But his eyes, she remembered, lit up throughout that first night together, and during their lunch at the Boathouse. When work was out of the question, when they simply exchanged stories and opinions and banter, she found access to something lighter, something that seemed to give him greater joy. Was it her? Surely not - it had to be more than that. More likely, perhaps it was the freedom to be himself. She recalled the crown cufflinks he wore on the first night - what she read as a sign of quirky subversion, of rebellion. But against what?

Betty suddenly wondered if he’d worn them during their lunch. She should have checked and asked then. But she was so aware of everything else about him - the sinewy muscles on his forearms as he rolled his sleeves up, the slight pout of his lips as he listened intently to her - that she had no time or desire to look anywhere else separate to his person and body.

She let out a silent, frustrated groan. _I really am screwed._ With no phone in hand and nothing to distract herself with, she settled instead against the couch, alone with her thoughts. In her mind, she drafted three text messages.

To Kevin. _So, what’d you think of him?_

To Veronica. _You may have had a point about the dinner booking. And about me. And how I feel. I’m a confused mess, V._

And finally, to Toni. _We need to talk about this article._

_…_

“Shit, I’m sorry, did I fall asleep?” Jughead self-consciously raised his hand to his mouth, praying fervently that he hadn’t drooled and made a fool of himself. He looked around wildly, a little reckless in his half-consciousness and shocked that he wasn’t dreaming after all.

“You did,” she said, laughing gently. “I didn’t have the heart to wake you. You looked exhausted.”

“I _am_ exhausted.” _I’ve been exhausted for five years._

“Well, there’s a bucket of champagne over there. Did you want me to pour you some? Or maybe something a little stronger?” Betty slid one leg down to the ground, ready to get up. “I think I actually saw a liquor cabinet in here somewhere--”

“No, please, I…” How did he explain this? “I don’t drink.”

“Ah. Okay.”

They were both silent a few moments.

“You can ask me my sad story about it if you like,” Jughead said. Sardonic. Defensive. Without meaning to. But people were always so perplexed, demanding an explanation for what they couldn’t understand.

“It’s okay,” she replied. “You can tell me when it’s easier. When it’s right for you to tell.”

He nodded. Felt the knots in his body loosen at that unexpected reply. They fell quiet again.

“Hey, uh, so...” Betty began.

Jughead looked up at her. A lock of her hair cascaded down and brushed against his cheek. He chuckled inadvertently as she blew it off his face, her breath tickling him. _Don’t kiss her don’t kiss don’t kiss her._

“Remember how we were supposed to ask each other one personal question a day?” she asked reluctantly. He nodded. “You’ve asked yours obviously, and I did have one, but... look, if you don’t feel like it tonight--”

“No, it’s alright, I do,” he replied. “And, to be clear, I really was okay telling you that other story, about the non-drinking. But thank you for giving me the option not to. Most people sort of just… expect it.”

She smiled. “You’re welcome.”

“Okay,” he said. “Hit me with this question.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. Go.”

“It’s an easy one, I think.” She looked down at him. “The nickname.”

Jughead chuckled. “Ah, of course.”

“You knew it was getting to this.”

“I mean, it’s Jughead. It’s _concerning_ when I don’t get asked.”

She laughed. “Right. So where’s it from?”

Jughead smirked up at her. “You’re in for a _long_ story, you know that?”

“It’s okay. I’m in for a long night.”

He gazed up at her, observing her wide-eyed interest. “Alright, well... it really started with my dad. He always had a knack for business and entrepreneurship. Or at least, he _aspired_ to have one. He was a mechanic by trade, but he also liked to invest his own money in different start-up companies. It gave him a sense of… I don’t know, purpose, maybe. Or significance.”

Jughead rubbed his hands over his face, suddenly weary. It had been a while since he told this story. “We weren’t exactly poor growing up, but we skirted fairly close to it. That all changed when he got lucky investing in a local tech start-up that went big soon as it hit Silicon Valley - pretty close to what they call a ‘unicorn’ business these days. It was a risk that paid off, and it made him a bit braver with his money, so he ventured out into other things. I was about seven.

“The summer after that, this man come into town - well-spoken, intelligent, credentialed. He was in the water-bottling business, he said, and he’d apparently patented some technology that made biodegradable plastic for water bottles. I still remember him in our living room - he had a full kit and display and everything. He and my dad became fast friends over six months, and before we knew it, my dad had put the full weight of our savings behind the company. WaterJug, it was called. Not very creative, right?”

Betty smiled bleakly. “God, I can see where this is going.”

Jughead sighed. “Unfortunately, so did everyone. But my dad vouched for this guy. They had a verbal agreement, he said, and apparently, that should have been enough. Long story short, the guy took off with every cent my dad had invested. He was a scammer - turns out that biodegradable plastic was a total myth back then - and my dad became the laughingstock of the town.”

“That must have been horrible,” Betty said, her soft blonde eyebrows knitting together in concern.

“It was,” Jughead said. “Anyway, kids being kids, I sort of had to bear the brunt of it at school. A few thugs didn’t really like how quickly our family rose to wealth, so they relished the fact that we fell back so swiftly to the ground. They went from calling me WaterJug, to Jug Kid, to just plain Jughead. And the name stuck.”

Betty’s face was stricken as she looked down at him. “Seriously? That is _awful_. You got your name from an insult?!”

“I mean, it still has a good ending, you know,” he said, laughing, though he was touched to see how deeply it seemed to upset her. “My folks are more than recovered from that now, with Southside Motors doing well. As for the name - look, Forsythe wasn’t much better, anyway. And I developed a thing for Basquiat in high school, so that kinda dovetailed nicely with the stigma of the nickname. I decided to just own it.”

Her face lit up. “Basquiat, of course. Your crown cufflinks.”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, pleasantly surprised. “You noticed them?”

“I did,” she said.

“I had a little crown beanie, too, although I outgrew it ages ago. But I still carry it with me when I travel - the actual beanie, as well as little symbols of it. Sort of as a reminder.”

“A reminder? Of what?”

“Of Southside’s humble beginnings,” he replied. “Of where I came from.”

Betty regarded him, her green eyes seeming to search his very soul. “And what about where you’re heading to, Jughead Jones?”

“What about it?”

She shrugged and smiled. “What’s the story to that?”

Jughead was quiet for a few moments. It wasn’t that he didn’t have an answer - it’s that he couldn’t just say outright, _Well, there’s an unfinished manuscript in my bag. I haven’t written anything in it in years, but the last thing I wrote in it was about you._

“I… I don’t know yet,” he finally said.

“Well, you’re in New York, the City of Dreams.” She nudged his cheek with her thumb, almost playfully. “Maybe you’ll find one before you go.”

_Maybe,_ he thought.

_Maybe you’re one of them._

_…_

Hours later, Betty was busying herself cleaning up after the melted puddle of ice around the champagne bucket when she realised something. “Hey,” she called out to Jughead, who had gone into the room to change out of his suit. “Didn’t you say you weren’t a drinker?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Who, um, ordered the champagne then?”

He came out of the room, holding his toothbrush and halfway through the process of pulling his shirt over his head, the hard lines of his stomach exposed for a half second. Betty’s eyes lingered on the dark trail below his waist.

“I don’t know. It definitely wasn’t me.”

“Oh,” she said. “So the petals, the candles—“

“—were probably from someone on staff who presumed too much when they saw you walk in,” he replied, sounding irate. “I'm truly sorry, Betty, I’ll make sure they know not to do this next time.”

“It’s really fine,” Betty insisted as she mopped up the last of the puddle.

“No. It’s not.”

She looked up. His tone was a little harder than usual. “Jughead,” she reiterated, “it’s okay. It's just a bit of a cleanup. Why is it so--”

“Because I don’t want you thinking that this was on _my_ whim, my terms,” he said firmly. “I know we have an… an arrangement, but I’m not touching you unless you want me to. Whatever _any of this_ suggests. Okay?”

And with that, he walked off to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

Betty’s gaze trailed after him. Her heart was pounding furiously against her ribcage. As if it wanted to be set free to chase Jughead down the hall and kiss him senseless.

She knew then. As sure as she knew that it was _his_ voice in her head when she read the opening lines of _The Old Man and the Sea_ , as sure as she knew that his shirt breathed and belonged on her skin, as sure as she knew that she wanted to stay the night and have him hold and unravel every inch of her - she knew, without a doubt, that she was in freefall.

…

“Betty, you sticking with vanilla?”

She jumped at the sound of her name. Jughead was standing just outside his room, wiping his mouth with a towel. Unreasonably, she wondered if he could guess from her demeanour that she’d just figured it all out - her heart, herself.

“W-what?” _Let’s try that again, Betty._ She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Vanilla. You sticking with it?” he asked. “Milkshakes. I’m ordering room service.”

“Oh, uh, sure.” Hurriedly, she added, “Thank you.”

“And fries and one burger to share,” he said with a wry smile. “Unless you haven’t had dinner, and want a whole one to yourself.”

“I’ve had dinner, although I’ll happily have that burger again.” She returned his smile. “But yes, we’ll share.”

“Alright.” With that, he disappeared into his room.

Quickly, she picked up her phone, typing out the three messages she’d drafted earlier - to Kevin, Veronica and Toni.

His voice called out from the room. “Hey, Betty?”

First, to Kevin. _What’d you think of him?_ She hit ‘send’.  

“Yeah?”

“I gotta ask you an opinion on something, and it’ll determine how vicious tonight’s conversation is going to be.”

Second, to Veronica.  _You may have had a point about the dinner booking. And about me. And how I feel. I’m a confused mess, V._ ‘Send’.

“More vicious than me tearing into Hemingway, huh?”

“Potentially, yes.”

As she was typing out the final, most difficult message - the one to Toni - he walked back into the living room. Having been too busy to look at him properly earlier, she now looked up and was surprised to see him dressed for bed, in grey tracksuit pants and a faded black shirt with “Jones Automotive” emblazoned on the front.

If she’d had any doubt about her earlier epiphany, any remaining shred of resistance, that would have crumbled now. The sight of him relaxed and open in his sleepwear did something to her - or rather, it _undid_ something in her. Whether fear or pride or uncertainty, there was no denying it now: none could resist and withstand the deluge of her feelings for him.

Was it purely circumstantial? Based on naked desire? Physical attraction? It was all of that and more. He had peered into her soul and she had glimpsed into his, and there she’d found a kindred spirit. It was fast, and it was impeccably and  _terribly_ timed, and somehow, it still felt _right._

_This is a mess. I’m a mess. What the hell do I do?_

“...but clearly she’s the better Bronte. What do you think?”

Betty snapped back to attention. Dazed, she looked up at Jughead, who had apparently asked a question. “I’m sorry, what?”

He narrowed his eyes at her quizzically. “Are you okay?”

“Yes! I mean, yes, I am. You were saying…?”

“That Emily is clearly the better Bronte, because _Wuthering Heights_ is the superior novel. Don’t you think?”

_Well, thank god. Nothing like a horrible opinion to distract me._ “Holy shit, no,” she said, laughing. “Absolutely not.”

Jughead raised his eyebrows. She crossed her arms. They grinned wolfishly at each other.

Betty sat back down on the couch. “I am going to tell you approximately eight - no, nine - reasons as to why you are grossly incorrect.”

He sat next to her. “And I’m going to counter every single one of them. I am not budging on this.”

“Neither am I.”

Green eyes met blue. Steel and determination in both.

“Okay,” Betty said. “First off. Reason number one: Rochester. Don’t tell me your Heathcliff is the superior Byronic hero.”

And all too quickly, they were down the rabbit hole again. But not before Betty picked up her phone, at first to look up the year that _Jane Eyre_ was written, then to send her final message to Toni.

_We need to talk about this article._

She hit ‘send’, then turned back to Jughead, ignoring her phone for the rest of the night. 

...

When Betty woke up, the first thing that she saw were the remnants of the night - cold, leftover fries, emptied milkshake glasses, and a piece of paper on the coffee table, with two columns drawn up: one labelled ‘Wuthering Heights’ and the other ‘Jane Eyre’. Both were written in his spidery handwriting, with pros and cons written underneath in neat bullet form.

She yawned and looked down. Jughead was asleep on the floor next to the couch, covered in a blanket.

_Well,_ she thought, _good morning to you._

The television flickered out of the corner of her eye. _That’s right,_ she recalled. Sometime during the night, in the process of discussing (or arguing over) Regency England literature, she’d discovered that Jughead hadn’t seen the BBC _Pride and Prejudice_ mini-series yet. Realising that the hotel TV had Netflix, she put it on. He was fascinated, and his commentary throughout the series was incisive and thoughtful.

All the while, Betty glanced at him when she could, whenever she wasn’t being overtaken by sleep. She kept thinking that she shouldn’t be staying over - they’d established rules, after all. But she hadn’t counted on this. On _him._

Jughead was seated on the floor, his back on the couch as she lay down facing the TV. She could see him straining to keep his neck straight, refusing to let his head rest back on her. Slowly, she nudged her leg closer, grazing his shoulder.

“Jug? It’s okay,” she said. “You can lean back.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Betty fell asleep like that - his head leaning back, warm on her skin, Mr. Darcy’s voice dry and aloof in the background. It was 2.30 in the morning, and she was drifting off. She could barely hold up against the tide.

_That metaphor’s apt,_ she thought wryly.

Glancing at the TV, she realised that _Pride and Prejudice_ had played through the night, and they were now on the final episode of the mini-series. She sat up on the couch. Elizabeth and Darcy were walking through a familiar wooded lane, and he was just about to turn to her with his final declaration of love.

She could have quoted it word for word: “ _You are too generous to trifle with me,”_ Darcy said. “ _If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject forever._ ”

And Elizabeth, of course - what else was she to say? She whose family had been rescued by the very suitor she had spurned furiously? She who had seen past his cold exterior and glimpsed warmth and passion and love underneath?

“ _My feelings,_ ” Elizabeth began. “ _My feelings are… I’m ashamed to remember what I said then. My feelings are so different. In fact, they are quite the opposite._ ”

Below her, Jughead stirred awake. “Hey,” he said, his voice still raspy from sleep. “Good morning.”

She looked over and smiled. “And to you.”

“You... slept over,” he said, his brow furrowing as the realisation dawned on him. “I’m sorry, that was one of the rules, I should have--”

“No, Jug, it’s okay,” she said, “I kind of don’t mind.” (She left unspoken: _I wanted to._ )

“Okay,” he said, smiling sleepily.

Her heart lurched. Shaking it off, she changed the topic swiftly. “So, um, what’d you want to do today?”

“It’s up to you,” he said. “I’m completely at your mercy today.”

_Don’t talk like that,_ Betty pleaded mentally. She looked up at the TV. Elizabeth and her sister Jane were talking in their room. _“How long have you loved him?”_ Jane asked, to which Elizabeth replied, “ _It’s been coming on so gradually, I hardly know.”_

Then she had an idea.

“I’m going to take you around today,” she said. “I’m taking you to _my_ places.”

...

Other than the Greenwich, parts of Central Park and the bright lights of Manhattan at night, Jughead had barely seen New York. He’d seen it numerous times, of course - in postcards from more intrepid friends, pictures in books, and panning shots in television shows.

Seeing it in the flesh was something else entirely. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, _alive_. Even the skyline, which was familiar to most people with an Internet connection, drew him in with its dark, glittering beauty. Betty was right: even the most cliched of images held a certain mystique for a small-town kid like himself.

But to see it from Betty’s eyes - from _her_ perspective - was even more special. She instructed him how to buy a MetroCard and laughed when he opened his wallet and revealed that he only carried hundred-dollar bills (graciously, she ended up purchasing his). She took him to Black Seed, her favourite bagel shop in SoHo, where he bought eight bagels - all with variants of schmear and lox (“we need fuel for the day,” he reasoned). From there, they went on to the spot where the statue of the Fearless Girl once stood, and he listened as she told him about the time that she cried on the sidewalk for a full five minutes after seeing it for the first time. Then, they walked over to Battery Park, where they could see the Statue of Liberty in the distance. They stood side by side leaning on the barriers, sharing one of the bagels.

“You know I’ve never been there? Where the statue is?” she said, smiling sideways at him.

“Really? How come?”

“Well, for one, the lines are atrocious,” she replied, motioning towards the crowd in front of the ferry barrier.

He laughed, agreeing.

She went quiet. He waited, watching the breeze blow strands of her hair towards the bay.

“But, probably more significantly - and this is gonna sound really stupid - it’s sort of like, my ultimate New York wish. I’ve always wanted to do it, and I worry that once I go there, that’s it for me, you know?” She sighed. “The magic will disappear. And I’ll just be another cynical New Yorker who’s seen it all.”

“Maybe,” he said. He thought of the manuscript he’d been writing for years, how scared he was of writing it until that very morning. “Or you know, you could also be someone who took the risk and found that everything was okay on the other side.”

She turned towards him. “Now how do I figure that?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess you’ll just have to go one day.”

Betty laughed. He never got sick of her laugh. “I like that. It’s simple. Clean."

He smiled. “Well, do you wanna go now? No time like the present.”

“Oh, I…” She glanced over at the statue. “I don’t know, Jug.”

“You don’t have to,” he said. “I just thought, maybe no-one’s asked you yet.”

She gave him a small smile. “You’d be right.”

“Alright. So. What do you say?”

She scrunched up her face, chewing on her bottom lip, evidently deep in thought. He liked that she was actually thinking about it - taking this monumental step to overcome an anxiety. With _him_.

“You know, I… I would honestly love to, Jug. But maybe not yet. Maybe not today.”

Admittedly, he was a little disappointed, but it was understandable. “Hey, at least you thought about it, right? Baby steps.”

“Yeah,” she said. “But thank you for giving me the option, for letting me know that I could have.” She nudged him. “And not thinking that I was weird.”

“You’re a lot of things, Betty,” he replied. “But ‘weird’ isn’t one of them. At least, I think.”

She slapped him playfully on the arm. “Hey!” he exclaimed.

“That was barely anything!”

He pretended to rub at the spot, and she rolled her eyes. They shared a companionable silence as he passed her a torn-off piece from his bagel. “Hey, um…” he began, turning serious. “We both know I'm not in town for long. If it's not too much, can you promise me something?”

“Sure.”

“Can you let me know if… if you change your mind? About seeing the statue?” He cleared his throat. “I’d like to come.”

“Oh gosh, I’m sorry - of course. I didn’t even think about that, this being your first time in New York and all. Obviously you’d want to see it--”

“No, no,” he insisted. “I just… I want to be there. For you.”

She went still. _Have I gone too far?_ he thought.

“Why?” Betty asked.

_Fuck it. Here goes._ “To catch a glimpse of your face. When you finally see.”

She met his gaze - steady, green and resolute. “See what, Jug?”

“That you can take a risk,” he said. “And that the magic will still be there.”

…

Their final stop was the New York Public Library.

Betty was out of sorts. She was a mixed bag of emotions - overwhelmed by everything Jughead had said at the park, furious at having met him under such a horrible stroke of kismet, and most of all - _most of all_ \- struck with such longing for him that she could barely breathe.

Luckily, they were too busy navigating the huge crowds to talk much. She didn’t know whether he knew the full weight of what he’d said - what it meant to her - but he seemed content to follow her without speaking, absorbing the sights around him.

The subway to the Library was crowded when they stepped in, having hit the lunch time peak. Betty was all too conscious of how physically close she and Jughead were, being pressed in on all sides by the other passengers. As the train shuddered, accelerated and halted through the 5 line, they shifted against each other’s bodies, lingering at the contact and taking longer each time to step apart.

Betty was dizzy with yearning by the time they stepped out into their stop, emerging from the Grand Central-42nd Street exit. She took advantage of the sudden onslaught of fresh air, breathing in, calming herself, making a conscious effort to look away from Jughead. There was an extra huff in her step, as if by walking quicker she could run away from the rush of her emotions.

“Hey, Betty,” Jughead called out from behind her. “Where are we going?”

Betty heard the slight breathlessness in his voice, and forced herself to slow down. _Stop. You're being an idiot_ _._ More likely than not, Jughead was probably unaware of the chaos of craving that was throbbing within. She carefully measured her voice as she turned back. “You’ll see soon.”

They turned into 5th Avenue and finally, it reared into view: the stately monolith of the Stephen A. Schwarzman Building, grey and Olympus-like, its pillars rising imposingly above a huge flight of stairs that extended out into the street. She heard Jughead exhale next to her. “Whoa,” he said. “Is that—“

“The New York Public Library, yes,” she replied, smiling. “My favourite place in the city.”

“Ah. You mentioned this as one of your places yesterday.” Betty raised her eyebrows, pleased and surprised that he remembered. “But you also said that there were others that were more secret, more _yours,_ right?”

“Well, yes. The secret is _inside_ , you see.” She turned to him. “You want to come in and see?”

“I would love to.”

Betty led him up the stairs and inside the Library. She took pleasure in seeing him gawk up at the huge lanterns that lit the hallways and pause for several minutes at the gift shop. When she took him into the Rose Main Reading Room - the lofty-ceilinged hall dominated by antique chandeliers, huge windows and rows of rosewood reading tables - he actually gasped. She smiled, revelling in his amazement.

“This isn’t your secret place, is it?” he whispered, looking over at all the students with their laptops open, stress written on their faces.

“Gosh, no,” she whispered back. “It’s on the second floor. Away from all these tourists.” She nodded over to the crowd beside them, who were snapping away on their phones.

He chuckled at them, before turning to her. “Can you take me there?”

She looked at him for a long time, the air seeming to steady itself into a frozen tableau. In that moment, the battle in her mind settled to a detente, and instinct took over. She was done fighting this. For the first time in her life, she ignored the calculations in her mind, except for one: measuring her desire, and maybe even his. And she made her choice.

“Come with me.”

…

The second floor of the New York Public Library received far less visitors than its grandiose ground level. It was, in some ways, the real library, where books were catalogued and lined into shelves, and librarians stacked returns onto carts.

It was also Betty’s secret, most treasured place.

“The Fiction section,” she said, her voice low and hushed. “Right here. Between every story that’s ever been told, this is where I go. When things are frantic or fearful or messy, I come here to just… sort my mind. And read.”

Jughead was quiet as he regarded her. She trailed her fingers along the book spines on the shelves.

“Austen. Bronte. Eliot. Shelley. Twain.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “All the classics.”

She started walking into another row, and beckoned for him to follow.

“Then, yesterday, I wandered in here.”

He looked at the shelves, then back at her. “H,” he said. “For Hemingway.”

“You’re more than familiar with the fact that I never liked him,” she said, laughing. “And, in all honesty, I still don’t think that I do.”

The silence stretched out between them - a crackling tension in the air as they kept the storm at bay.

“I opened the first page of _The Old Man and the Sea,_ and it was all there - the short, clipped sentences I hated so much. The lack of description. The distance from the subject.”

In the distance, they heard a door close. Footsteps receding. Then, nothing. They were practically alone.

“I… I opened it to prove a point,” she said. “But…”

“But what…?”

She raised her eyes to meet Jughead’s. Dark. His breathing shallow. Probably mirroring hers.

“But that wasn’t why I was reading the book, was it?”

The rhetorical question floated into the air, dancing into the space between them, inviting them to come closer. He did. He took one step towards her, and she followed suit.

“Why…” he began, “why were you reading it, then?”

“Because,” she breathed out, knowing its finality, a white flag dropped to the ground, “I was looking for you.”

They were close enough now that she knew he could _feel_ that sentence - its hum on his lips - rather than hear it. She dared not look away now, not even to look at his hands, which tugged upward at the thin fabric of her blouse, raising it slightly to feel the skin beneath and graze the soft down of her waist. He held her gaze, and she held his, and the walls of her mind collapsed in on themselves, setting forth a random stream of memories and images.

The relief of diving into cool water in the middle of June.

The glow of a bonfire, its flames licking the sky as it burned deep into the night.

The languid touch of lavender as she soaked naked in the bath.

And finally, a textbook answer from middle school science. _“What is lightning? Lightning is a sudden electrostatic discharge occurring in a thunderstorm.”_

_No,_ she thought.

As she closed her eyes and pressed forward, as her lips - at long last - were found and ferociously claimed by his, as he parted her mouth with his tongue, asking, searching, begging to be taken in, she had one, final coherent thought.

_This. This is lightning._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, for reading this fic, and in particular, for waiting a little longer between updates. I am so grateful for you - for every kudos and comment! Hopefully the ending of this update made the wait worth it!
> 
> I've been getting some fantastic, very thoughtful responses on how the truth plays into all of this. To that I say (without spoiling anything) - the title of the fic is key. The motif of stories and storytelling, freedom and risk, is deliberate. The growing intimacy between Betty and Jughead is not incidental. I hope that (and some little hints from Betty in this chapter) can reassure, if not intrigue, some readers.
> 
> Jughead takes consent super seriously. I like the twist here of having Betty recognise her desire for him through THAT. She's nothing but a modern gal!
> 
> **Some other author notes:**
> 
> The car business stereotypes were completely made up, although any similarity to reality is completely coincidental!
> 
> I took some liberties with the portrayal of Eleven Madison Park, which probably isn't the kind of establishment where you can order multiple rounds of premium sake. The honeycomb dessert was my invention.
> 
> A little Easter egg for all you Archie comic aficionados out there: Jughead's origin story with the nickname is based on the relaunched Archie #2 by Mark Waid! I took some liberties with the original story, but the original comic panels can be found [here.](https://jontrouten.blogspot.com/2015/08/jugheads-nickname-gets-origin-in-archie.html)
> 
> I mentioned 'unicorn' businesses - it's the loose term for a business valued at $1 billion. WaterJug certainly wasn't that, but the scammer talked big enough to convince FP. Also, biodegradable plastic is now a real thing! But not when Jughead was seven years old.
> 
> "Jones Automotive" on Jug's shirt is the name of FP's mechanic business.
> 
> All the places mentioned in New York - including Black Seed Bagels - are real, and geography and distance have been taken into consideration for Betty and Jughead's travel times. 
> 
> I've mentioned 'Pride and Prejudice' in other fics, most prominently in 'In vain I have struggled.' Sorry, guys. I can't help it. Darcy is my bae.
> 
> I hope that update poured cool relief on the burn! Did you enjoy the chapter? How are you feeling towards Betty and Jughead? Was this wise, foolish, inevitable?! Talk to me! xx


	7. the responsibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **responsibility (n.)**
> 
> the state or fact of being accountable.

It was a series of soft, muted sounds - nothing loud, orchestral, or earth-shattering. But the sequence, strung together, seared itself into Jughead’s memory. He would replay it over and over again that night. He would try (and fail) to capture it in words.

First, the soft thud of her body against the shelf as he walked her back into a wall of books.

Her small, muffled gasp of surprise. Its puff of heat against his mouth.

Finally, the rustle of fabric as she bunched his shirt into her fists, pulling him closer to deepen their kiss.

But there, too, were the sensations, and with that taken into account, his mind could barely keep up with the pure deluge of data pouring into his brain. He could only register the whole thing in separate, convenient sections as he mentally scanned the entirety of his body - his head, spinning with the rush of blood; his neck, jumping with his pulse as she looped her arms around it; his hands, fighting to know every inch of her skin; his lips, parting hers like an open book.

Somehow, in the fever of the moment, his mind recalled a line from a novel he’d read: something about kissing, about how it felt like drowning - this all-encompassing feeling of being overwhelmed and submerged.

Yet as engulfed as he was in the moment - as disorienting as it felt to have her pulling him flush against her hips - it felt nothing like that. Instead, air seemed to fill his lungs. Clarity flooded his senses, and his chest seemed to expand in the wake of the heated kisses they traded.

 _This isn’t drowning,_ he thought. _This is breathing._

The sound of someone deliberately clearing their throat echoed from the aisle, and the two of them broke apart quickly, almost comical in their panic. An elderly librarian was shaking his head disapprovingly at them as he walked past, pushing a cart full of returned books. Jughead snorted out loud, and Betty covered his mouth with her hand, laughing silently.

As the old man disappeared down the aisle, Jughead looked back down at her, pulling her towards him by the curve of her waist. He held her close to him as their shared laughter subsided. It felt good, he surmised - to laugh with her like this, and to have her fit against his body so _perfectly_. He met her eyes, and somehow he wasn’t surprised that she was already looking at him, searching his face, her eyes lingering on his mouth. Gently, his fingers came up to tilt her chin.

This time, when they kissed, it had none of the surprise element of their first, which was at once inevitable and unexpected. No, this kiss was softer, more tentative - a question mark of a kiss that acknowledged the passion that went before it but also asked, _Where to? What next?_

She pulled away from him, evidently to say something. Feeling brave, he leaned down and nuzzled her neck. She inhaled sharply - a just reward for his efforts. “Jug,” she breathed out. “Do you… do you want to--”

“--get out of here?” he murmured into her skin. She gave him the smallest of nods.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me, too.”

…

Jughead had no idea how they ended up at the Greenwich. Did they take the subway? A cab? Did Betty call an Uber? He could barely think, fixated only on her, on the slender hand she slipped into his as they stepped out of the Library.

 _Well,_ he thought, _there goes the last rule._

They were both tense in the elevator heading up to penthouse, still holding onto each other but silent as they watched the numbers light up one by one on the glass display. Jughead sensed that they were both thinking the same thing - that it was one thing to kiss impulsively in the Library, but quite another to do _this_ next thing so consciously.

It really shouldn’t have surprised him: in a sense, this was what their entire arrangement had been building up to. But it sure didn’t feel that way. Or rather, it didn’t _feel_ like it was part of the arrangement. For one thing, they’d barely touched each other in the lead-up to their kiss. Their foreplay was wordplay - their stimulation, intellectual. Sure, he was all too aware of how beautiful she was, but that was never the _point_ of Betty. She was so much more than that.

Then, the money. He wondered if she knew where he’d been leaving the cash, faithful to his end of the deal - on the table opposite the elevator doors, visible but discreet. He hadn’t thought about it much, mostly because his mind was full of Southside Motors and surprising, sudden bursts of prose and _her_. But it stayed there, accumulating each day, untouched from the day before.

Did she simply forget? Did she _mean_ to leave it, to keep it all there, out in the open until the deal was done? Or was it… could he imagine that it was an unconscious rejection of the terms that were meant to define them, but were now hopelessly falling apart?

The soft _ding_ that announced their arrival at the penthouse was like a gavel hitting wood - it had a sense of verdict and finality to it that stopped his thoughts in their tracks. They stepped across the threshold, looked at each other, and allowed the silence to expand between them.

“So...” she began.

“So.”

There was so much he wanted to say, so much that was on his mind. Jughead had never been the type to be overwhelmed by the physical component of sex, although _this_ was coming close. To him, it had to involve all of his facilities, or it simply bored him.

Physically, he was already there; the rush of blood to his groin and the languid dreams he’d had of her body were a testament to _that._

Emotionally, too, their conversation at Battery Park disarmed him - to see her that vulnerable, that _open_ , did things to him. It pried his heart open, dangerously so.

And mentally? Well… there were still so many questions on his mind. Like, where was this even going? What was he supposed to do with all of this once he flew back to Riverdale?

( _Why was the money still on the table?!_ )

Betty snapped him back to attention as she took the first step towards him, tugging his shirt to pull him up against her. In the moody, half-lit dimness of the penthouse, it seemed as though she was the only thing he could see.

 _So let it be,_ he thought, all other notions dissipating. He let himself give in to the tide, and surrendered at last to the tender oblivion of her lips.

...

Betty, on the other hand, was reeling, completely resigned to the rush and pull of her desire. No thought, no reserve. Only action.

And she felt free.

Somehow, she wasn’t shocked at how quickly she unbuttoned his shirt, how quickly her hands found the release of his skin, the hard muscles of his stomach which tensed and loosened under her touch. It made sense, taken within the context of her craving for him. And so when _he_ had his turn and pulled her shirt off, exposing the simple lace bralette she’d worn for the day, she leaned hungrily into the caress of his calloused hands. All the while, she pressed forward, never departing from the heated collision of their kiss.

Betty soon drew Jughead backwards, walking them back until she came up against a wall. The knobs of her spine grazed across the cool cement as he lifted her up and pinned her against the hard surface. His hands were caught under her thighs, gripping her with a steady strength that belied his slender muscularity. She imagined him pressing her into his sheets, his smooth chest bearing down on her, gasps and pants and thrusts and finally, sweet release.

Then, all of a sudden, he stopped.

She was startled: her mouth had trailed off where his kiss broke, and she worried that she’d misstepped, or had gone too far. “What?” she asked breathily. She looked down, seeing his skin touch hers as he held her suspended in the air. “What is it?”

“I just…” He grinned, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “I just wanted to make sure this was actually happening.”

“Jughead, of… of course it is,” she exhaled. Did he not sense her desperation to touch him, her need for him? “Why would--”

“Whoa, hey, it wasn’t a real inquiry,” he said, chuckling as he kissed her collarbone. “I’m just a little in awe of this. And of you.”

At those words, Betty felt her heart burst into a hundred tiny butterflies.

Then, moments later, she felt like she’d been sucker-punched.

Jughead continued to nip at her skin, his hips grinding against hers, but her mind was already somewhere else, as the growing realisation of their situation dawned on her.

_I’m falling for him._

_He’s falling for me._

_He still thinks I’m an escort._

Over his shoulder, Betty glimpsed it: the small, neat pile of money on the table that had slowly accumulated over the last few days, his payment for her so-called services. She’d seen it before. _Of course_ she had. But every single time, she’d walked past the cash, neglecting it because she’d been too busy swooning over Jughead, or ignoring it because - she understood now - she couldn’t bear to acknowledge the reality of what hung over them.

Betty started panicking. She couldn’t go through with this now, could she?

_Could she?_

Her body was still rising in response to Jughead, goosebumps on her flesh, her stomach churning with waves of anticipation, but it did so now with the desperation of something that knew that this had to end. At least for now.

_Until I can figure this out._

_Until I tell him._

As he kissed her again, she savoured it, pressing further in, extending it so she could commit the taste of his mouth to her memory. Then, with the stabbing ache of regret, she pried herself away from his lips.

“Jug…”

It was his turn to be confused. “What?” His eyebrows drew together in worry. “I’m sorry, too much?”

She could have cried. How was he this considerate, this good to her? She had to get out of here before she succumbed back to her desires. She couldn’t have sex with him, not like this.

“No, no… I…” _How the hell do I explain this?_ Firmly, she said, “Jug, no, that was perfect.”

“Was it… was it what I said earlier?”

She wanted to protest, to tell him _no_ , but the sound of his phone ringing interrupted them. He took it out of his pocket and groaned as he looked at the screen, dropping her gently back down on to the floor. “Fuck. I’m sorry, Betty, I have to take this.”

“It’s okay, you go ahead.”

He looked as though he could have thrown the phone across the room. “Actually, this will... probably take a while.”

“It’s okay. Jug, look - I can go. I have an appointment soon, anyway.” _An unannounced one,_ she added in her mind.

“Sure, of course,” he said, his regret all too evident. The phone kept ringing, and he looked anxious to answer it, but he kept his eyes fixed on her. “Please tell me I’ll see you tonight. Can we… can we pick up where we left off?”

“Of course,” she said adamantly. She was going to fix this. No more pretense, no more lies. “I will definitely be back.”

“Good.” Jughead took a tentative step towards her. “And before you go, can I--”

“Yes,” she whispered, before closing the gap and kissing him fiercely. It was a kiss that was awake to itself - clear-headed, away from the smoke of lust, and sober. Betty knew all too well that things were changing after that kiss. She didn’t know how - only that they _had_ to.

...

Betty frantically checked her messages as she power-walked through the lobby of the Greenwich. One from Kevin. One from Veronica. As expected.

But none from Toni.

She sighed, frustrated. _I’m gonna need to see her. Today._ The doorman tipped his hat at her as she approached the doors, and she slowed down. “Hi, sorry, where’s the best spot from here to hail a cab?” she asked him.

“Ah, are you Mr. Jones’ companion, ma’am? Miss...” He checked the iPad he was holding. “...Betty?”

“Oh, uh, yes.” _Companion._ No point in correcting the man. Betty barely knew what they were.

“No need for a cab, then. Mr. Jones has called ahead and arranged transport for you. One of our drivers should be pulling up right about -- ah, there he is.”

It was all Betty could do to not flop down in front of the poor, clueless doorman and cry. Jughead Jones was a good man. Truly, _truly_ good. And while she was in the process of trying to fix the mess that he had no idea they were both in, she still felt completely destroyed by the thought of the hurt she could inflict on him.

She unlocked her phone as soon as she got into the car. The driver was having a brief conversation with the doorman, and she used it as an opportunity to read through Kevin and Veronica’s replies.

**Kevin**

       I met him for all of ten seconds, B.

       It’s not so much what I think of him, but what I saw of YOU

       Girl

       You were glowing

Betty laughed out loud. _Trust Kevin to put a positive spin on things._ It cheered her up to know that one of her best friends could see what she had suspected this whole time: that Jughead awakened something in her. That her heart wasn’t just held hostage by the bizarre circumstances they found themselves in; she truly was falling for him, and it showed.

She then opened the message from Veronica.

**Vee**

       B, this needs more than a text message. I’m calling you tomorrow as soon as I push through this deadline. It’s insane here.

       Have you spoken to Toni?

       P.S. I don’t think she’s in the office today.

Betty could have punched through the window. Her plans for the day were completely thwarted: she was going to turn up at _Lilith’_ s headquarters to duke it out with Toni over the article. Desperately, she went back into her inbox and checked her e-mail as well, just in case: still, no response from her editor.

The driver came back. Glancing up at her through the rearview mirror, he asked, “Where to, Miss Betty?”

She was feeling despondent over her failed plans, until she had a sudden burst of brilliance. “The Met Breuer, please,” she requested.

“Sure thing.” The driver tipped his hat at her. “You seeing an exhibit there, ma’am?”

“Oh, no - the place we’re going to is around the corner from there,” Betty clarified. “I’ll direct you once we get close.”

…

The Blossom-Topaz residence was a handsome brownstone building on New York’s Upper East Side, meticulously decorated by Cheryl and featured in _Architectural Digest._ The headline - “Love, beauty and modern Baroque BLOSSOM in the Upper East” - had Toni laughing for days; Cheryl was livid that they couldn’t make an additional pun out of ‘Topaz’.

Betty had been there more than a few times. Toni made a point to invite her editorial staff over for dinners to check in on how they were going. Her vision for her home was to make it a modern-day 27 rue de Fleurus - the Parisian home of Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, where multiple writers and artists would gather to view the couple’s legendary art collection and exchange ideas. Like Gertrude and Alice, Toni and Cheryl were avid art collectors, but they also simply enjoyed having company. Betty loved coming over - it was the closest thing she had to family in the city.

More recently, she’d visited the home several times to talk to Penelope, who lived with the couple and was helping her prepare for her undercover assignment. She’d met Penelope before and admired her elegance and class, but their conversations around sex work made her a lifelong fan of the woman. She was a high-end sex worker and madame during Wall Street’s early boom days, and had thrived through both rich and lean times in New York. More than that, she’d raised a child in the city and managed to protect her from the more unsavoury parts of her job. She was successful, savvy and held little regrets.

After tipping the driver, Betty ran up the steps of the building to knock frantically on the door of the Blossom-Topaz home. Once. Twice. On the third attempt, she prolonged and increased the volume of the knock, alarming some passers-by. Normally, she would have cared, but with Jughead at the back of her mind, her desperation escalated, and she simply couldn’t muster the energy to pay any regard to strangers’ opinions.

Taking out her phone, she called Laylah, Toni’s PA. “Hey, Betty!” she answered brightly. “I was just about to call you. Toni left me strict instructions to check in on you today.”

Betty’s words came out in a breathless rush. “Laylah, I’m actually at her place, and she’s not home. Where is she?”

“Oh, you don’t remember?” In the background, she heard Laylah shuffling the pages of her giant planner. The girl was busy. “Same place she and Cheryl go to every single year.”

“What? _Where_? What place?”

“The Hamptons, babe. Their anniversary getaway, booked out as usual.” Laylah tutted. “Come on, B, you know this - it’s a yearly thing.”

Betty sucked in a breath when she recalled the date. How could she forget? She shut her eyes, as if to guard herself against the incoming torrent of panic.

“Are you okay?” Laylah asked. “That’s the kind of thing that doesn’t usually slip your mind.”

“No, I just…” Betty shook her head. “But it’s a weekday! And copy for this week’s issue is due today!” she protested.

Laylah chuckled. “Come on, Betty, you know Toni. She’s a stickler for dates. And accuracy. She wasn’t gonna celebrate it a few days late, and besides, Veronica’s here. She’s running a tight ship.”

Betty put her head on the door, breathing in and out slowly. _This can’t be happening this can’t be happening this can’t be happening._

“Anyway, how you holding up? Is there anything else we can do for you?”

_Go back and shift time. Call Toni back. Give me a way out. Stop Jughead’s flight. Anything._

“No, nothing,” she replied despondently. “Thanks, Laylah.”

“You sure? Absolutely, 100% positive?”

“I’m good.”

“Okay, B. Take care of yourself, girl.”

Betty hung up without saying goodbye and sat on the steps. She sat there for a while, vaguely observing cars as they drove by, the watercolour grey of the sky above. Then, without a care for the strangers that walked past, she put her head down on her knees, and cried.

…

“Hey, kid, you did real good.”

Jughead was sitting on the bed, shirtless - his shirt left on the ground close to where Betty had pulled it off and flung it away. He figured he’d leave it there as long as possible - a visible memory of what had transpired between them.

FP had called, desperate to know how the pitch meeting went. Jughead briefed him on the details of the contract, leaving no page ignored, as FP made comments here and there and asked questions. He was pleased. He knew as well as Jughead did that that deal leaned heavily in their favour, which meant the start of a new era for Southside Motors.

“Thanks, Dad.” Jughead lay back on the bed, staring indifferently at the ceiling. “You going alright?”

It was always a loaded question. He’d had been asking it for five years. And while he knew that his father hadn’t touched a drink in over twelve months, he still had to ask. Out of habit.

“Come on, you know I’m good,” FP replied. Jughead exhaled quietly. He knew he’d just have to trust his word on that. “Hey uh, listen, Jughead....”

His tone made Jughead sit up. He knew what his father sounded like when he was about to tell him something significant: he used his name. Not ‘kid’, not ‘boy’, but _Jughead._ “What? What’s up?”

FP’s speech was halting and nervous. “I’ve been thinking about your future here. At Southside.” He cleared his throat. “You know just how... important you are to this company. Not just with the publicity stuff, although it’s obvious you’re good at that, too. But, well, you know - with _me_. I don’t say it much, but I’m… I’m grateful for it.”

Jughead blinked and stared at the wall opposite the bed. Unsure of what to do with his father’s gratitude.

“You know that we’re gonna expand sooner or later once advertising for Southside goes beyond the US. It means that we’ll have to open another plant somewhere. Demand’s already rising, even without the extra marketing, and we’re just barely coping here. We’ll need to split the operation, which means I can’t be around here managing things as much as I’d like.” 

“Dad, what are you saying?”

“Jug, I’m saying I want to promote you.”

The room suddenly became stifling. Despite the cool air on his bared torso, Jughead felt himself breaking out in a sweat.

“To… to what?” he asked.

“Managing Director and Product Strategy. You’ll have someone on Operations and Logistics running the actual plant, but in terms of vision and direction and keeping it true to our core company values… that’ll be you. Which means you’ll be off the travel circuit. No more long trips away, no more hobnobbing with ad men and suits. You’ll be here, in Riverdale, for good.”

Silence. Jughead couldn’t trust himself to speak.

“It wouldn’t be official until a few months, when we start drafting plans for the new plant,” FP continued. “But is that… something you think you can handle?”

Jughead noted bitterly his father’s choice of words. _Something you think you can handle._ Not something that he would _want._

_Go. Go somewhere. Anywhere. Write, run, scream, do anything, damn it._

“Dad, I…”

The walls seemed to lean in, listening for his next words.

He stood up, and he felt waves of panic rush through him at the thought of his dreams slipping away, this sudden glimpse of freedom in New York closed forever, shut.

“I’m sorry, Dad. I really… I have to go.”

...

Betty had no idea how long she sat there, on the steps of Toni and Cheryl’s residence. At one point, an elderly woman who was taking laps around the block on her walker stopped and asked her if she was okay. Betty tried to wave her away, telling her she was fine.

“Whatever it is, he better be worth it, honey,” the woman called over her shoulder as she walked away. That only made Betty more miserable. Because she suspected - she _knew_ \- that Jughead absolutely was.

She’d just finished putting her head back down on her knees when she heard a steady, measured _click-clack_ on the pavement, accompanied by the skittering of paws up the stairs. “Frida, girl, slow down!” called a familiar voice.

Betty glanced down between her knees. Frida, Toni and Cheryl’s Yorkshire terrier, was excitedly yapping at her ankles, and right behind her was the dignified, elegant figure of Penelope Blossom, carrying some groceries.

“Betty!” she remarked. “My dear, what a pleasant surprise. What are you doing here?”

Betty had no idea what she looked like as she raised her head to meet Penelope’s inquiry, but it couldn’t have been good: the older woman’s face immediately registered concern as she soon as she saw her. “Oh, goodness. Bad day, I suppose?”

She nodded weakly.

“Dear me. Well, come in. Toni and Cheryl are away in the Hamptons, but I won’t have you out here getting chafed by the wind. This street’s like a wind tunnel. You hungry?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t--”

“Nonsense. You’re no trouble at all. Something to drink, perhaps tea? Chamomile? Jasmine?” Penelope frowned as she took in her bedraggled state. “Or maybe something stronger?”

“No, I… I’ll just have water.”

Penelope opened the door, and Frida ran in excitedly. The sight of a familiar place comforted Betty. The house intimidated her when she first started working for _Lilith,_ but over the years, the seeming coldness of Cheryl’s beloved chandeliers and gilt-framed portraits softened in her eyes, and became a portrait of home.

She followed Penelope into the kitchen, pulling up a bar stool and leaning on the black marble counter. Penelope busied herself with setting out two glasses of ice, chopping up strawberries and mint leaves which she dropped in before dousing with water. “Here you go - it’s a little sweeter than regular water,” she said with a smile, pushing the glass towards Betty. “Now, how about something to eat? I think I’ve got a batch of cinnamon kisses left in the pantry, and… oh, let me see what else I can rustle up…”

Betty could only stare dumbly as Penelope set out a range of snacks in front of her. It struck her then that so much of the woman’s renowned hospitality probably came from being good at her old job - entertaining men and women, keeping them happy, listening to and considering what they wanted before they even knew it themselves. Betty’s thoughts unintentionally flew to Cheryl - how hard it must have been to grow up, knowing her mother’s job and reputation, but thinking, too, of what it must have been like to be doted on, protected, spoiled, and given cinnamon kisses every afternoon.

Penelope faced away from her and leaned back on the counter, feeding Frida some treats while slowly sipping from her own glass. Betty appreciated the quiet between them - the fact that Penelope wasn’t pushing her to converse, happy to wait there until she had something to say. She debated in her mind whether she should talk to her or not. The silence stretched out comfortably between them, Frida’s paws on the tiles the only sound they could hear, and the faint sound of traffic outside.

“Penelope,” she began, her voice still and small. “I’m in a mess.”

Penelope turned around to look at her, her gaze soft and sympathetic. “The undercover assignment? _”_

Betty nodded, and with that, her eyes misted over. It was like this whenever she was upset: all it took was one word, one clear and gentle gesture, to dismantle the walls she’d built carefully over the years. 

“You have feelings for the man,” Penelope concluded simply.

How she knew that, Betty couldn’t fathom, but she nodded anyway.

“I suspected as much,” Penelope said. “When Toni told me that the arrangement had been extended, it seemed to me that there were… _other_ factors in play.” She sighed. “Clearly, he desired you. And I know you, Betty. No matter how pressing or interesting an assignment could be, you would not have said ‘yes’, had you not desired him, too.”

The dam holding Betty’s tears back broke forth. She couldn’t hold back anymore, as the frustrations of the last few days boiled over. Penelope waited quietly, until Betty found her voice again.

“I mean, he… he was _supposed_ to desire me, right? I practically turned up to his door half-naked.” Her words, Betty knew, were the nonsense of denial, but she was tired and far too emotionally distraught to make any sense. “I just didn’t, I didn’t think--”

“Oh, Betty, come now. _You_ know all too well that there is a world of difference between a man who wants your beauty for a few hours, and a man who wants to see you everyday while he’s here in New York - who desires your conversation, your laughter, your _mind._ And that difference is sentiment - his, of course, but also, clearly yours.”

Betty wiped her tears away. Penelope pushed over a box of tissues.

“I just… I did _not_ see this coming,” Betty blew her nose. “I thought I was doing something so I could, you know, bring an important issue to light, but also challenge myself, take a risk, and now... now…”

“And you think _this_ is not a risk? There is risk here, too, Betty. The truth is that you are being confronted by the possibility of falling in love, in the most unconventional of circumstances, and to give into that… well, that in itself is a risk. It’s what led you to come here, to seek Toni. Because you will do anything to make it right - for yourself, for this man, for _Lilith -_ and more than that, to make it _possible.”_

Betty felt overwhelmed by the searing truth of Penelope’s words. She could hardly bear it, and so she put her head down on the counter, the marble a cool relief for her head. She stayed there for a few minutes, her tears silently pooling on the surface. “Penelope, was it...” She lifted her head, looking at her. “Was it ever like this for you? Did you ever… I mean, was there someone--”

“Well, yes, of course,” she said. “But only one, and he was married. He gave me my Cheryl, and for that I will always be grateful. But we never pursued it. Ours was simply not a time for running after our passions. I only had room for one, and it certainly wasn’t _him_.”

“Your job,” Betty sniffed. “Your one passion was your job.”

“That’s exactly right,” she replied. “I liked my work, Elizabeth. Far from regretting any of it, I enjoyed it - you know this from our conversations. I liked sex, and I soon figured out that I was _good_ at it. And to know that I could make a job out of that to support myself, and later on, my child? It was practical, but more than that, it empowered me. So the choice was easy - I went with what made me feel strong.”

“So... it never felt like a risk?”

“To an extent, yes. You and I unfortunately know the stories of girls less lucky than I - the ones who couldn’t make a choice for themselves. I loved my job, but this profession is no walk in the park. Still, I showed up, and I made something of myself. And so to speak of risk… well, at the end of the day, when you and I speak of it, we are speaking of two different things. I was not in your situation, and you were not in mine. You are seeking a story; I was simply living mine as well as I could.”

It was a quiet revelation, but it stirred something deep in Betty as she regarded the woman in front of her, growing in admiration for her, the lessons she had learned and now were passing on. Perhaps this was the real lesson - not the countless hours spent on how to enter a room, what lines to say to seduce a man, how to discreetly collect cash at the end of the night. 

Penelope exhaled and reached across the counter and put her hand - smooth as alabaster, adorned with a simple ring of gold and lapis lazuli - over Betty’s. “You and I are so different, Elizabeth,” she said gently. “But I’ll tell you this: it takes considerable effort to seek your truth. I made a _choice_ and found mine in my work. You, however,” she patted her hand affectionately, “I believe you’ve stumbled onto yours.”

“Meaning… what?”

“You may well be writing a story, but there’s a bigger one you ought to be writing. Not for _Lilith,_ not for an audience, but for yourself.”

A shiver ran down Betty’s spine. Like the shiver of getting a news scoop, or stealing a kiss in a library. A shiver of sudden realisation, an inkling of a way forward.

“And, Betty?”

“Yes?”

“When seeking your truth... remember, too, that sometimes, that truth is a person.”

...

Jughead exhaled a breath of relief as he leaned back against the shelves and looked down at the triumph of his words.

Pages and pages of it.

Following his phone call with his father, he’d sprinted out of the penthouse and out of the Greenwich, desperate to get some air, before walking aimlessly through the surrounding streets. A sudden burst of inspiration soon had him hailing a cab, offering the driver an obscene amount of money to take him to the closest stationery store and afterwards, to the Library, as quickly as legally possible.

He was in the stationery store for all of five minutes. He’d barely closed the passenger door when he started writing furiously on the new lined notebook he’d bought, the words magically taking shape as he recalled the shape of Betty’s lips, the soft curve of her hip, the feel of her shirt between his fingers as he took it off.

The pace of his writing only increased when he got to the Library and sat himself down in the row where he and Betty had kissed earlier in the day - the row containing H for Hemingway. There were many words crossed out, sometimes even entire paragraphs. But the inspiration was unrelenting, and before he knew it, he had nearly finished an entire piece. He didn’t know how to classify it - a story? A recount?

 _No,_ he thought. _A manifesto. To know her. To kiss her more._

He stretched his arms up and looked out the window. Nearly night-time. He still hadn’t gotten back to his father, though FP had tried to call him multiple times after he’d hung up on him. It wasn’t that Jughead didn’t know what to say - only that he was carefully calculating its implications.

When conviction finally took hold of him, he took out his phone. Ignoring the many missed calls from FP, he opened his inbox to send two messages.

First, to Betty. _I can’t do tonight, business calls. But can you be the first thing I see in the morning?_

Then, to Sam Cassan, his contact at Cassan and Associates, home of Southside Motors’ legal team. _I need a favour, and quick. Can I give you a call, say 8.00 New York time? Paid for, obviously._

The reply was quick. Jughead Jones, they knew, was not a man to be trifled with, even at an inconvenient time.  _Of course. Talk to you then._

Jughead ran his hand through his hair and returned to the paper in front of him.

The Library was closing in half an hour, and he had an ending to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, for reading. I haven't been able to catch up on all the comments yet, but every word (seriously, every single one) has affirmed and overjoyed this writer. So thank you!
> 
> This was THE most difficult chapter for me to write. Penelope Blossom was always going to come into play at this point of the story, so I always had an idea of what I wanted to do with her, but writing her in a way that was redemptive and respectful towards sex workers (but also dropping some truth bombs on Betty) was incredibly difficult... but also super rewarding. She is, obviously, very different from canon. But I still hope you enjoyed her in this chapter. She's definitely much nicer than actual Penelope, and the conversation between her and Betty is something I'm very proud of having written. A little Easter egg for you - Penelope's ring and the precious stone on it is symbolic. Enjoy looking it up!
> 
> Much of the positive insights shared by Penelope on her work were inspired by [this incredible piece by Eva Ressy, an actual sex worker.](http://deliciouslybad.blogspot.com/2012/02/deliciously-bad-gets-ranty.html?zx=af72f032e08540a2) Her blog is obviously NSFW, but it contains some incredible thoughts and discourse on sex work, if you are interested.
> 
> It's been a rough week for considering Choni in fandom, so I hope this version of them provided some joy. The idea of them as a New York Gertrude and Alice seriously makes me happy. I also like to think that Toni has injected some incredible grunge touches in their modern Baroque home.
> 
> The next chapter is going be a HUGE challenge for me to write, so it may be another two-week break between updates. For those who have subscribed, bookmarked, kudos'd and commented, I am truly grateful for you. Thank you for your patience and your persistence with this story.
> 
> Did you like the chapter? What did you think of the conversation between Betty and Penelope? Where are Jughead and Betty headed?


	8. the reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **reckoning**
> 
> fate; judgment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please mind the additional tag of "Mild Angst".

“Room Service.”

“Hi, this is Jughead Jones, I’m staying at--”

“The TriBeCa Penthouse, of course, sir. What can we do for you?”

“I was wondering if I could get a freshly brewed pot of coffee sent up?”

“Gladly, Mr. Jones.” In the background, he heard the soft scratching of pen on paper. “And may I ask, did you have a preference with the coffee batch? We have a wonderful Ecuadorian that’s just come in this week, straight from the farm itself, or perhaps you would like the hotel’s signature Kenyan?”

“Uh... Ecuadorian sounds good. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. It'll be there in ten.”

Jughead hung up and turned back to his laptop, where the equally wearied face of Sam Cassan could be seen peering down his glasses at a pile of papers. He looked up briefly, a little amused. “Did you have any idea what you just ordered?”

“Not a clue. All I know is I need to wake up.” Jughead rubbed his eyes. “You find anything yet?”

The lawyer tutted. “I’m working on it.”

“Sam, I need to be sure.”

“I know, Jug,” the lawyer replied, taking his glasses off. “What’s the big rush anyway?”

_Rush? I’ve been waiting for this day for five years._ “Don’t worry about that. Just tell me: is there anything that’ll pull me back to Southside Motors once I sever all ties?”

“Look, going over your contract, there doesn’t seem to be anything: it’s pretty clear to me that all you’ll need is a month, post-resignation. But—“

“ _But_?”

“You can’t just make a clean break, Jughead. The month needs to be on active service.”

“Alright.” _Active service is fine,_ he thought. _As long as…_ “Technically, can I do it remotely?"

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if I work away from Riverdale. I need to oversee this Bellamy and Bryce campaign anyway, do a proper handover with whoever’s next--”

“Wait, what? You’re moving out of Riverdale, too? Jesus, Jones. What’s your dad going to think?”

Jughead shrugged. “I guess we’ll see.”

“He’ll miss you, you know,” said Sam, as he peered thoughtfully at his client. “What are you going to do in the meantime?”

“Not sure yet,” Jughead replied. He realised that he felt excited by the possibility. Of not knowing. He’d spent five years having to know things that were beyond his grasp - the names of car parts manufacturers, laws around the automotive industry, how to tie a proper Windsor knot so that he’d look presentable to clients. This time, though, he had the true bliss of ignorance.

_And Betty,_ he thought. 

“I’ll figure it out along the way.”

Sam chuckled. “Shit. What happened, Jones? You meet someone in New York?”

He smirked. “Maybe.”

“Who?”

Jughead smiled, the corners of his mouth turning up at an inside joke.

“Ernest Hemingway.”

...

Penelope glanced over at Betty, who was pacing the floor in front of the ornate fireplace that served as the centrepiece of Cheryl’s favourite room. She’d been at it for nearly thirty minutes. She could have worn a hole through the carpet beneath her feet, if she’d kept at it.

Had Toni been there, she would have told her mother-in-law that this was just typical Betty Cooper, in full _Lilith_ mode: tense, agitated and silent as she mused on her work. _That’s just how her brain operates, Penelope,_ she would have said. _We know to give her space when her mind is on overdrive._

But this wasn’t simply a matter of the mind. This was a matter of the heart.

Still, Toni’s advice applied.

_Give her space._

So Penelope did.

She quietly hung back, leaning against the doorframe as she watched the girl walk back and forth, back and forth. She wondered about their earlier conversation - what effect it had on her, what she absorbed.

She wished she could do more to help. But Betty was no fool - Penelope knew that. Whatever she’d decide to do would be the right thing.

Or perhaps, in this case, the truest thing.

But the situation before her was impossible. Would she risk losing something this rare, this profound? Or would she risk her job instead?

_It’s always easier to choose,_ Penelope thought. Just like  _she_ did. With no regrets. Perhaps a few here and there (with a pang, she thought about Cheryl’s father - the impossible, irascible Clifford, God rest his soul), but for the most part, she slept well at night.

But that wouldn’t be enough for Betty - to choose one path and to neglect another, to shut the door permanently on one of them. Because if anyone could, Betty Cooper would forge and bulldoze a third way. Penelope just didn’t know how.

With a sigh, Betty sank down to the couch. She seemed to have arrived at a conclusion. Penelope stepped into the room and sat next to her.

“When do Toni and Cheryl arrive?” asked Betty quietly.

“Early hours of the morning. They’re driving back down.”

Betty nodded, staring into space before standing up.

“I’m gonna need to pick up my laptop from the apartment,” Betty said. “But I’ll come back. Can I--”

Penelope immediately read her mind. “Of course you can stay here tonight. Until the girls arrive back home. You can talk to Toni then.”

“Thank you, Penelope.”

The grim confidence in Betty’s stride as she walked out of the room was a far cry from the crumpled figure in the kitchen earlier. There was no way she could know for sure, but Penelope had an inkling of what had been decided in her mind.

The die had been cast. That girl was taking a chance, and she was betting big.

...

Speed-dial 1. On the other end, the phone rang. Once.

_Just like you rehearsed, Jughead._

Twice.

_Straight to the point. Like you always do. This is a normal business call._

Thrice.

_Except this time you’re resigning._

Four times.

_Ready?_

“Hello?”

_3, 2, 1._

“Dad. We need to talk.”

...

Betty could see that Toni was surprised when Penelope led her into the living room. She had set up a makeshift office of sorts in front of her - laptop, Post-Its, a cup of green tea and her trusty notebook, all strewn about the coffee table. Her vision was growing bleary, but she forced herself awake as her boss regarded her quizzically, before sitting down across from her. “Betty? What are you doing here? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Toni. Thanks, though.” Betty heard a slight tremor in her voice, her nervousness apparent. She swallowed that back down, forced herself to sound firm, assertive. “Did you get my message?

“I did, actually.”

They were both silent. Betty knew that Toni wanted her to come out and say it. She took a deep breath.

“We need to talk about the article.”

Toni ran her hands through her pink hair. “Look, Betty, if you’re backing out—“

“Okay. What if I am?”

“ _Why_?” Toni looked at her squarely, meeting Betty’s challenge with her own. “ _You_ pitched this article, Betty. You had the chance to walk away. And now you’re telling me you want out?”

“I didn’t say that,” Betty replied, panic rising. “Well, not _exactly_ that.”

Under any other circumstance, had she not conversed with Penelope earlier, Betty would have crumbled under Toni’s fierce gaze and hard line of questioning. But she had a plan - at least, she thought she did. “It’s more than that. It’s… god, it’s a long story, Toni.”

“Well, you’re in my house, and it’s past midnight, so clearly you want to tell me this story.” Toni leaned back against the couch and rubbed her eyes, evidently exhausted. “So, talk. Is this a new pitch?”

Betty drew herself up. She was used to standing toe-to-toe with Toni. She’d done it many times before.

But she’d never been this vulnerable. Never this exposed and honest about what _she_ wanted - not as a journalist, or an editor, or an employee of _Lilith._

But as a woman.

She took a deep breath. And she started talking. She didn’t pitch an alternative story.

She told her own.

…

Jughead thought that if he’d been a drinker like his father, he’d be drinking now. He stood at the window of the penthouse, looking out over the city before allowing himself a glance over at the far side of the room. There was a liquor cabinet full of complimentary bottles close to the couch – the good stuff, like what he’d seen in FP’s office before he cleaned it all out, post-rehab. He’d had a look earlier, if only to peruse what he knew he could not be tempted by. There was a pricey Chivas Regal. A rare whiskey. A couple of bottles from a local Brooklyn meadery.

Curiously, he recognised that his heart, too, was full of the stuff that drinking was usually built on – exhaustion, emotion, elation.

Exhaustion, because he’d just gotten off the phone with his father, who’d railed, yelled and even wept at him as he informed him of his decision to resign. “What’s this place going to do without you?” he’d said. “Where does that leave _me,_ Jughead?”

“I’m never gonna stop looking after you, Dad,” Jughead had replied. And he meant it. He’d even called up FP’s old AA sponsor to plot out a plan, in case of a relapse.

“But,” he continued, “I need to take care of myself, too.”

As for emotion, that was easy to account for. For the first time ever, he was able to be completely honest with his father, and with himself. About his hopes and dreams. About why he stayed for so long, and why he now needed to leave Southside Motors.

FP was shattered, and maybe he didn’t fully understand quite yet, but at least he was letting him go. Jughead didn’t tell him about Betty yet – he wasn’t sure how his father would react to him falling for an escort who’d shown up unannounced to his door. He himself didn’t know what to make of it, either, how it would all work out. How did dating and relationships even work for escorts?

But the thought of seeing her in the morning – of telling her completely how he felt – eliminated the questions. He’d figure it out later. _They_ would. Together.

And so there it was. Elation.

If Jughead had been a drinker, he’d be toasting to his own future. With champagne.

...

Betty stared at Jughead’s sleeping form. The morning light was starting to stream in, casting flecks of sunshine over his bare torso - an island of flesh in the midst of the pale beige sheets. She’d shown up that morning at the lobby of the Greenwich, and the same concierge that had shown her to the car the day before now nodded as she walked in, and gestured towards the elevator.

“Mr. Jones has instructed us to let you up to the TriBeCa, Miss Betty,” he said.

The now-familiar elevator doors opened with a soft whoosh, and Betty could see that the penthouse was a mess - plates on the floor, an empty coffee pot on the couch, and a laptop left open. There was paper all over the place, too - loose sheets of good paper stock with Jughead’s now-familiar writing. She bent down, expecting notes on Southside Motors and sales figures.

But there were no numbers or automotive jargon. Instead there were lines and lines of words. _His_ words, it appeared. She looked more closely, reading the first sentence.

_“Perhaps she was the light - both the brilliance of New York’s skyline and the soft glimmer of its dawn, peeking over the quiet steadiness of the Hudson...”_

Betty’s head felt dizzy as she quickly stood back up, blood rushing into her head.

Could he--

_No._

Could he have been writing about _her?_

Her entire body flushed in denial, but her heart whispered that it must be so. That there was more than mere heat and chemistry in the way he’d kissed her the day before. _He_ was falling for _her_ , too.

Which only made the impending conversation worse.

Miserable and spent, Betty walked into the bedroom and took a seat across from the bed. She put her head in her hands, waiting for the aspirin to kick in and ward off her headache. She hadn’t slept at all, stumbling out of Toni’s place at five in the morning, before wandering around Central Park with a cup of strong coffee in her hand, her mind still whirring with thoughts about the hours ahead. It was no accident that she drifted towards the lake, the place where she’d first felt an inkling of her desire for Jughead, that day when he’d asked her to lunch at the Boathouse. It was a torrent from then on. What began as a small shifting of snow soon turned into an avalanche.

Which led her here.

Betty knew that it was Jughead’s last day in the city. But more than that, she understood that it could well be the last time she’d ever see him. She had no idea how he was going to react to what she was about to tell him - whether he’d respond with excitement, or recoil in horror. The scrawled lines of prose on the paper outside both thrilled and terrified her. They were a stark outline of what she stood to lose.

A soft groan arose from the bed, interrupting Betty’s thoughts. She looked up as Jughead stirred. His eyes squinted against the light before focusing on her, registering her presence in the room. “Hey. You’re here.”

“I am,” she said, smiling despite the turmoil inside of her. “Hi.”

He chuckled drowsily. “Hi.”

Jughead closed his eyes again. With a shock, Betty realised that she could feel tears welling up in her eyes.

_Jesus, Betty,_ she thought. _Don’t you dare start now._

But she couldn’t help it. She knew that she could be having what might be one of her last conversations with him. Her guts ached already with fierce longing, and in that moment, exhausted and caught in the shadow of her uncertainty, without knowing why she was doing it, she grew bold.

“Hey, Jug,” she whispered, “can I… can I lie down next to you?”

He sat up suddenly, looking at her as if to measure the seriousness of the request. But she was far too tired to be guarded, to retract what she said like it some sort of mistake. It wasn’t a mistake. She wanted it.

“Only if you let me hold you,” he replied.

Her response was to slip her sandals off, climbing into the massive bed. She’d gone home and changed quickly before coming over, and now wore a simple white linen wrap dress - something that she liked wearing to work when she wanted to feel a little more dressed up. It was an interesting trajectory, she thought. For Jughead to have seen her first when she was half-undressed and draped in lingerie, to now - dressed in her normal attire, and yet never having felt more naked and exposed in her life.

The sheets still smelled like him, and she would have happily burrowed right in, even if he wasn’t there. But he _was_ there, and his skin was bare and flush with the warmth of the bed, and for a moment, nothing else existed beyond the confines of the mattress - no _Lilith,_ no sex worker assignment, no heavy conversations to be had. There was just the two of them, Jughead’s arms wrapped around her waist, his mouth in her hair, his body curled protectively around hers.

“I could get used to this,” he murmured.

Betty could only nod silently, not trusting herself to speak with the lump growing in her throat. _She_ couldn’t get used to this, couldn’t allow herself to want more. Not yet. Not until he heard the truth.

_Now or never, Betty._

“Jug--”

“Betty--”

They spoke at the same time. She turned around to face him; his fingers gently skimmed her cheek, and right then, she knew that the conversation could wait, that it _had_ to, even for just a little while.

This time, when they kissed, it no longer contained the spark of surprise that startled her in the library, the lighting-hot jolt that overwhelmed her senses. This time, it was more familiar - still simmering, though, and deepening almost immediately. Her lips parted as she wound her arms around his neck, just as his tongue brushed up against hers to form a delicate dance. She mouthed his name into their kiss; he held her closely against his bare skin.

_Please,_ she pleaded with herself. _Stay here. Stay for more._

_No._ _Stop. Enough._

But then he broke away first.

She was startled by the loss of contact. Fixing his eyes on her, he sighed. “I’m sorry, Betty, I… I have to tell you something first.”

Her eyes widened in panic. Did he beat her to the punch? Had he figured it all out? Should she have said something earlier? She forced herself to be calm.

“Okay. I’m listening, Jug.”

He sat up, running his hand through his hair. Betty’s heart was pounding.

“You need to know that… I didn’t plan on any of this,” he said. “You turning up here, turning up to my door - that wasn’t because of me. I never arranged it. I never called for an escort.”

_What?_

Jughead exhaled and looked at her. “They called me the night I flew in to New York, told me that someone was coming over. Bellamy and Bryce - the ad firm that was courting Southside’s account - thought they’d send me a… companion. Part of welcoming me to New York, I guess.” He cleared his throat. “I was hellbent on turning you away, for a lot of reasons. Not that... _god_ , not that I didn’t want to sleep with you that night, Betty. Because I did. And it took everything in me not to.

“But everything changed the moment I walked out, and you insulted my Hemingway book straight off the bat,” he said, laughing. “I already knew that I wanted you, at least physically, but it was everything else about you beyond that that pulled me into the deep. And I’m sorry if I deceived you or drew you in for the wrong reasons, but that’s how I knew I wanted to see you throughout the week. That’s why I struck the deal that we had. So I could see you for a few more nights.”

Suddenly, all of it made sense. His initial reticence. His suggestion of having her stay. The way he hadn't rushed headlong into sex.

Jughead shifted around so that was facing Betty completely. He took her hands in his. “The way I feel around you - I hadn’t felt that good in a while.” He shook his head, corrected himself. “I hadn’t felt that _real._ ”

In her mind, Betty winced, smarting at the unintended impact of the statement. But a small part of her couldn't help it: she still swooned.

“I guess what I really want to say is… I don’t know how this is going to work. I don’t know what it’ll all mean once we get out of here, and reality hits, and you work where you work and I try to figure my life out. I haven’t thought it all through, but _goddamn_ _it_ , Betty. Screw certainty, screw logic, screw it all: I’ve known you for three days, and it makes no sense, but I’m desperately falling in love with you."

Betty felt frozen on the spot, the knots in her stomach tightening until she felt she couldn’t breathe. She felt something damp on her hand, and realised only then that she was crying. 

How easy it would be to just stick with what she’d originally intended to do; come in here, tell Jughead the truth, and leave that for him to digest. When she walked around Central Park that morning, staring at the lake, she’d made up her mind that that was the course of action she would take. No unnecessary emotions. No complications. Spit the truth out, and wait to see what he’d do with it. That was the plan.

But Jughead was never part of any plan she’d had. Everything about him - about _them -_ disrupted her carefully structured life, her life without risk.

And she loved that.

And she was beginning to think that she could love _him._

So she ignored the rational part of her brain that was telling her to get up and away from him, and turned to him instead.

“Jug…” She hesitated, but what could she lose? “When I kissed you in the library, I meant it. Every part of it. And I don't regret it.”

Betty stopped, allowing a dry sob to shudder through her body. She recognised how much harder this choice was. _To tell him this,_ she thought, _and to know that it could all be nothing at the end of the day..._

But she _had_ to make it through. She at least had to let him know what he meant to her. “I walked into the library looking for a book. For a story that reminded me of you. I didn’t recognise it then, but as soon as you stepped in with me, as soon as we kissed, it all made sense. You’re the story I’ve always wanted to read, Jughead.”

He looked at her with renewed passion and leaned in to kiss her. And that’s where she had to back away. Because she knew that if she’d kept giving in to his kisses, she would only struggle with this next part.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her fingers on his lips, her eyes averting his. “Jug, I can’t keep doing this until I take you somewhere.”

He looked at her, puzzled. “What, _now_?”

“Yes, now.”

“Where?”

She took a deep breath, before sliding her feet out onto the floor.

“To the last of my places.”

...

Jughead had felt a sense of relief upon hearing what Betty felt about him. It was one thing to be kissed; another to actually be told that she wanted him, too.

But he had no idea where she was taking him.

They were given one of the hotel cars to take them right into the Flatiron District, which Jughead recognised from a few days before. He’d attended the pitch meeting with Bellamy and Bryce in one of the buildings there. It was a sprawling district of media and tech companies - staid suits mixing in with the more brightly dressed hordes of writers and graphic designers. Everyone seemed to be headed somewhere. Days ago, he’d been one of them, too; today, he was a penniless writer.

_Well, not quite penniless,_ he thought. He’d at least taken the time to negotiate a pretty decent severance package, and Sam was now in the process of setting it in motion.

Betty seemed grim and distracted throughout the ride, and he wondered whether he’d done the right thing confessing his feelings to her. He reminded himself that she had returned the sentiment, and it was _she_ who’d initiated the intimacy of getting into bed with him that morning, and he felt a little better.

Still, he wondered what kept her so still, so morose, so unlike the Betty that teased him mercilessly about his favourite books and halved burgers with him.

“Just at the corner here, please,” she signalled the driver.

The car slowed to a stop, and after Jughead gave the driver instructions to return to the hotel, they stepped out, and he turned to the building in front of them. Its façade was both impressive and modern, its windows emblazoned with a solid hot pink stripe running across the glass - a clever signifier of the company that took up the building’s most prominent office space.

Something about the shade of pink was familiar. Jughead couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but it was like Facebook’s slate blue - a ubiquitous, branded shade he’d seen several times before.

Then he remembered where he’d sighted it so often - his sister’s laptop. That website she was constantly browsing and sending him articles from… what was it called again?

“ _Lilith,_ ” he murmured, in response to his own question. Betty’s head snapped towards him.

“What? What did you say?”

“ _Lilith._ The website. My sister’s obsessed with it.” He met her surprised gaze. “These are their headquarters, right?” He spied the building directory, confirming his guess.

“Right. Yes.”

A tense silence stretched out between them. He couldn’t handle it any more. He turned towards her. “Look, I gotta ask. Are we… actually, no, are _you_ okay? You’ve been really off since we left the hotel.”

“I’m sorry, I…” She let that sentence hang in the air before shaking her head in frustration, grabbing his hand to lead him to a nearby bench. “Jughead,” she said, “there’s something I have to tell you.”

They sat down. He watched her hands. They fidgeted nervously in her lap.

“Betty, what’s going on?”

She exhaled a deep breath. “Before I say anything else, can I just ask you to promise me one thing? One simple thing?” She looked straight ahead, away from him.

“What’s that?”

“To remember that I kissed you first,” she said. “And how. And where. And what I said in bed this morning.”

“Betty, how could I even--”

“Please,” she pleaded. “Just promise me, Jug.”

“I do. I promise.”

Betty sighed. For a moment, they were both quiet on the bench, the world rushing madly around them as they remained a pocket of silence.

“You know,” she said, bursting the bubble, “I don’t think I ever told you my last name.”

She was right. She hadn’t. Jughead couldn’t believe that he hadn’t even thought to ask.

Betty noted his incredulous expression. “Hey, it’s okay. Honestly, given everything else, the name kind of just... fell on the backburner.”

He nodded. He knew exactly she meant. Names _did_ feel secondary in this pressure cooker of a love affair, particularly in the wake of long conversations over truffle fries and simmering kisses in the library.

But… still. He counted it no small feat that he’d told her the origins of his bizarre little nickname two nights ago - a story he hadn’t told anyone in _years._

As if reading his mind, Betty continued, “But you and I know that names still mean something. After all, you shared yours with me.” Her hands were now shaking, and Jughead reached over, steadying them with his own.

She turned to him. “Jughead, you know me as Betty. But beyond that, you also know… me. The fact that I drink vanilla milkshakes, which even my own best friend has trouble remembering. That I come from a small town. That I am absurdly afraid to see the Statue of Liberty.”

“I know more than that,” he said, moving closer to her, unable to help himself. “I know the curve of your lips, what they look like when you’re about to argue with me. And I know that you’re beautiful, but I also know that you’re especially transcendent when you’re wearing my shirt.”

She looked away, but it was too late - he’d already seen the tears cascading down her face. He reached across, ostensibly to wipe them away, but she flinched at his touch.

“There are things you don’t know, Jug,” she said. “Big things.”

Jughead wrung his hands. “Like what? Betty, I’m struggling. Why did you bring me here?”

She took a deep breath. “Because… this is a place of mine.” She gestured vaguely towards the pink-tinged windows. He looked up, then back at her, uncomprehending.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Please know,” she sobbed, “that I never meant to hurt you.”

“Betty, what… I—“

“My full name is Elizabeth Cooper,” she said. “And I’m not an escort. I’m the News Editor for _Lilith,_ and this is where I work.”

…

Jughead would always have trouble remembering what happened right after her confession.

He may have sat for a long time in silence - that was the likeliest scenario. He may have even gone for a run around the block. Or screamed his lungs out. He honestly didn’t know.

Because his mind went blank with shock.

Everything that had transpired in the past few days suddenly slid into a logical sequence, like slides on an old-fashioned Kodak Carousel. The money that remained untouched on the table. The fact that he had to pretend to be her date at the Boathouse. The rules of their arrangement.

Rules. Of course she had to have rules.

Because this wasn’t her job. She needed boundaries.

“Jughead?”

Even her voice sounded different all of a sudden. He nodded his head to indicate that he’d heard her, but everything about her suddenly seemed foreign. He had been ready to talk about what it would mean for them to see each other, to test the waters of the future, and now… none of that was even needed, or relevant. Because she was not who he thought she was.

“So…” he began slowly. “You’re not… _actually…_ a… an escort.”

“No.”

“Right.” He nodded, dazed. "Right."

He didn’t know what to say, what to ask. There was too much.

“How did you… I don’t understand.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a migraine coming on. “How did you even end up with me? At the penthouse?”

“I… I’m not so sure about that,” she said. “I was pretending to be an escort for an assignment – a discussion piece around sex workers. I pitched for it to be written to be someone who’d gone undercover, and we partnered with an agency to get me to a client, and that’s where I was sent. To you.”

In the remaining logical part of his brain, it made sense: the agency had sent her to an unsuspecting client, someone who hadn’t asked for it, who’d be too surprised or pleased to try anything stupid. He wondered if they’d gone to lengths to keep her safe. Even as he felt a sense of hurt and betrayal brewing in him, he hoped that they did.

“Undercover,” he repeated. “So you would have written a piece about this?”

She took a long pause. “Yes.”

He winced.

“I mean, no. Technically, I… god— “ Betty pushed fists into her eyes, stemming the tide of her tears. “It was going to be a roundtable discussion. Between current and former sex workers. And I would have had to chair the discussion.”

“But you would have still had to talk about this, right?” He paused. “About _me?_ ”

She nodded silently. He swore under his breath.

“Jug, please. I know I don’t deserve to be heard by you. But the article. You have to know. It’s--”

“You know I just quit my job?” he broke in. “Last night. A job I’d held for _five_ years.”

Her eyes widened. “You did? _Why_?”

He looked straight at her. “I think you know why.”

Betty gaped at him, and slowly shook her head. “Tell me. Please.”

He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “God, Betty, why do you think? You think this is normal for me? That a beautiful woman just turns up to my hotel room every day? That she happens to know what ignites my insides and what makes me tick and what makes me vulnerable?

“There were things that lay dormant in me until you came along. Things that I thought were dead, or finished. And suddenly, around you, they were awakened again, and I saw that my life was a lie, and you gave me some semblance of truth. You made me hope again, put my trust in something that I’d never had before.”

Next to him, Betty sobbed silently. He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t. It would destroy him.

“But I don’t know any of that anymore. I--” He loosened the collar of his shirt. “Fuck. I… I really don’t know what to think.”

He got up. He needed to take a walk. She stood across from him, and he forced himself to look at her.

“Jug, everything I said, everything I did…” She brought her hand to his cheek. “You have to know it was all true. You have to.”

“Betty, don't you get it? There is no-one in this world who would want this all to be true more than I do.” He clenched his jaw reflexively to ward off the ache that was threatening to spill out. “But I don’t know anything anymore. I…” He took a deep breath, feeling air shudder in his lungs. “I don’t know what part of this was real.”

“All of it,” she whispered.

“Except _that_ part, right?”

With that, Jughead pulled her hand away from his cheek, and turned to walk off.

“Just say the word, Jug,” Betty said, standing up. “Say the word and you’ll never have to see me again.”

He hesitated in his step. How did they get to this?

“But you have to know that I will never, ever forgive myself,” she said. “For lying to you. For staying silent when I should have spoken up sooner. And I’m sorry. But… I know I will be even sorrier if I don’t do everything I can right now to make you stay. To show you that this – _us_ , what’s between you and me - is real. Jug, you know that it is.”

But his head was full, spinning and reeling from hurt and shock and betrayal and still, underneath it all - he could not deny - desire. “Betty, I...” he began, his hand cupping her face, wanting to know if it still sent a tremor of electricity through him. It did.

But it hurt, too.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he said, his hand dropping to his side. “I can’t do this right now. I have to go.”

And with that he turned away, walking aimlessly, disappearing into the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betty was always going to tell the truth. That was always the plan from the beginning. And the way she tells it here, I feel, is hard, but honest and necessary and true to who she is. This was so difficult to write, but I hope that the heart of it comes through the way I intended.
> 
> And as for Jughead? I don't think the issue for him was ever that Betty was a sex worker (I hope I showed that clearly through his inner monologue). It would've been complicated, sure, but I think he was willing to at least try and figure it out. The issue for him was always going to be the lack of honesty. Especially now that he's taken a risk and made a huge shift in his life.
> 
> It's a rough chapter. But I hope you can see how it makes sense within the story! There is light to come, and soon. So much love to you, reader.
> 
> ...
> 
> Did you catch the All-Wise Meadery reference? *wink*
> 
> Much love to my friend gingerheel for the tips on the Flatiron District!
> 
> To anyone who's curious, the Lilith office in my mind is located at the current New York branch of Anthropologie.
> 
> "Last Request" by Paolo Nutini and "All I Ask" by Adele were particular inspirations for this chapter. 
> 
> ...
> 
> How did you find it, reader? I hope your heart is okay. (Mine wasn't!) Thank you for your patience in awaiting this story. I'm hoping the next chapter doesn't take as long!


	9. the riptide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **riptide (n.)**
> 
> a stretch of rough water, caused by the meeting of two currents.

Veronica looked over her desk with something veering on disgust. It was a mess. _Lilith_ ’s first round of deadlines for copy had come and gone, and they’d made it… but only just. With Toni out of the office and Betty still undercover, the unenviable task of making sure everyone handed their work in on time had fallen to Veronica, who, after Betty, had been on staff the longest, and therefore considered most senior.

Normally, things weren’t as tight around the place - there was usually room at _Lilith_ for deadline extensions and extra edits. But the order had gone out from Toni the moment they finalised the content for this special edition of _Lilith’_ s online newsletter: the _pièce de resistance_ would be Betty’s article, and everyone else just had to work around it. Which meant that everything - artwork, listicles, minor profiles, book, film and music reviews - had to be forwarded in advance, because layout had to be done well before the article was slotted in.

Somehow, Veronica had managed to wrangle it: pending Betty’s article, the issue was running right on schedule. Once Betty’s undercover assignment was finished, she had a week to hold the roundtable discussion, write the transcript, build a narrative around it _and_ submit the story. Veronica was exhausted just thinking about it, but at least Toni would be back at the helm.

She stretched out lazily in her chair, suddenly fatigued. She took a cursory glance around her cubicle. It was an apt visual representation of the chaotic week she’d had - stacks of paper everywhere, multiple Post-It’s stuck all along the walls of her cubicle, and (most appallingly to her sense of order) an unwashed plate from staying back the night before, pizza crumbs and all.

 _No way I’m cut out for Toni’s job,_ Veronica thought, shaking her head as she put the plate on top of her filing cabinet, out of sight, to be dealt later.

She took a look at her to-do list: she’d circled one urgently, one that said “CALL BETTY”. The little box she’d drawn beside it remained unchecked.

Veronica groaned. _Some friend I am._ She had meant to call her before everything overwhelmed her at the office. Betty’s frank admission of having feelings for this Jughead guy surprised her. She had been the office spinster for so long - beautiful, smart, capable, but also frustratingly unavailable to anyone who wanted to ask her out. For Veronica to see that she had gotten so attached to someone so quickly, and particularly in such strange circumstances, made her wonder what had gone on in the last few days. She was already so hesitant about the whole thing to begin with, and this latest development only made her feel more protective of her best friend.

Sighing, she picked up her phone. _Hey B,_ she wrote in a text message, _I’m so sorry I didn’t get to call you. Copy deadline was fucking insane. But you and I still need to talk. Can I call you now?_

She pressed ‘send’, only to hear a faint message alert sound behind her, and footsteps approaching. She swivelled around in her chair and was met with the sight of a startlingly disheveled, tear-stained Betty, her eyes swollen and red as intermittent sobs escaped her.

Veronica stood up immediately. “Betty? What the hell? What are you doing here?”

“He’s gone, V.”

“Gone? What? Who’s gone?”

“Jughead,” she muttered. “He left.”

Veronica had no idea what Betty meant by that statement, nor what it entailed - what he’d said, where he’d gone to, what prompted it, or whether he’d be back. She only knew that she’d never seen her best friend cry like this before. She rushed forward, putting her arms around her. Betty rested her head weakly on her shoulder.

Veronica could see that a few curious eyes were starting to look their way. Everyone at _Lilith_ knew about Betty’s assignment, but only she and Toni had known about the revised arrangement of the last few days. “Hey,” she whispered. “Let’s get you out of here, okay? I’ll take you down to my apartment.” Veronica’s apartment was a large, sprawling studio in a building nearby - a frequently-used space for hungover _Lilith_ staffers who needed to lie down somewhere and recover.

“It’s really fine, I’ll just--”

“Betty, don’t make me hitch you over my shoulder and drag you out. Firstly: I can’t. Secondly: You are not okay. And that is not okay by me. Come on.”

Betty could only nod. Veronica grabbed her bag and took her best friend by the hand, marching her towards the elevator doors.

...

The crowd jostled around Jughead as he made his way blindly through the mass of bodies. It surged all around him like a current, and he felt claustrophobic under its waves. He had no idea where he was going, no idea where he wanted to end up. He just knew he needed to go someplace quiet to _breathe_.

It was easier to do that back in Riverdale, a small town bound by the rushing current of the Sweetwater River and surrounded by fragrant woods of maple and oak. If he ever needed to disappear or needed a break from the relentless machine of Southside Motors, he simply drove out and stayed away from the office for hours.

Not so in New York. The noise never seemed to stop. There were no pockets of silence in which he could simply pause and hide out.

Except maybe the TriBeCa. The penthouse.

 _And only after Betty came_ , he thought.

Jughead shook his head to free himself from that dangerous train of thought. He couldn’t deal with that right now. Not until he could get away from this chaos and get his mind to some semblance of clarity.

Desperately, he opened his phone to try and bring up Google Maps. His bland Apple wallpaper stared back at him, and he found himself a little saddened by the fact that Betty hadn’t messaged or tried to call him. Then he remembered what she had said to him right before he walked off.

_Just say the word, Jug. Say the word and you’ll never have to see me again._

And he realised he never even replied.

Jughead ran his hands through his hair in frustration, pissed at himself for not even responding. Hurriedly attempting to distract himself, he looked down at Maps and saw that he was standing a block away from Union Square - a hopeful patch of green in the midst of so much grey. He had no energy to summon a ride back to the Greenwich, and he had no desire to sit alone in some cafe where, even this early in the morning, every second table would be inevitably occupied by couples. So he began walking in the direction of the park.

At first glance, Union Square Park looked like the very thing he’d wanted to avoid - a wide open space with buskers congregating on the pavements, gawking tourists pouring foreign currency into their hats, young college students in twos and threes, loudly debating whatever existentialist thinker they’d happen to read about that week. It was loud, and _busy._ Jughead would have walked away had he not he glimpsed a quieter space past the hubbub of the square - a space of grass shadowed by some trees. With his head down, he made his way there, weaving his way quickly through the crowds. All the while, he also glanced down at his phone, hoping against hope that Betty would say something, anything.

Should he message her? What would he even say? Where would he _begin_? Of course he wanted to see her again. It was just a lot messier and more complicated than that. And that was the part he didn’t know how to navigate.

He soon found a quiet spot, and he shrugged his flannel overshirt off before laying it out on the grass. He collapsed over the top of it, shielding his eyes against the sunlight with his forearm.

 _Well, Jughead,_ he thought. _What now?_

Betty’s words were still swimming around in his brain, her tear-stained face visible before him like a tattoo beneath his eyelids.

_My full name is Elizabeth Cooper._

_I’m not an escort._

_I’m the News Editor for_ Lilith _, and this is where I work._

She had lied to him. And she’d kept up the lie for three days.

Jughead couldn’t help it: he felt wounded. It wasn’t simply the fact that she wasn’t who he thought she was - truthfully, he probably should have been celebrating the fact the she _wasn’t_ who he thought she was. He wasn’t sure what dating an escort would have meant in the long run, but surely, it would have been murky. Somewhere along the line, he knew that he would have been forced to ask some tough questions. _Am I okay with her sleeping with someone else - with multiple people - for her job? How do we approach our own intimacy? Would I just end up being jealous?_

But that - at least for now - was never really an issue for him. Or at least, he didn’t _make_ it one when he began to have feelings for her. He had fallen in love with her _knowing_ all of that, accepting that it lingered somewhere in the background. He asked her what it was like, treated her well and never pushed to know more than what she shared. And always, he accepted that who she was wasn’t defined by her job _._ He wasn’t falling in love with all the outward trappings of identity: he was falling in love with her soul.

And now? To suddenly realise that he had taken that emotional risk, and all for nothing? It felt like whiplash.

Jughead sighed and sat up. He picked his phone up and scrolled through the messages they’d exchanged in the last few days. Some of them were as recent as the night before. _I wish I didn’t have to work on stuff tonight,_ he’d said. It was the closest he came to telling her outright how much he wished he could have just spent the night making love to her. And her reply, achingly brief, still stole his breath in its simplicity.

_Me, too._

He screwed his eyes shut against the sunlight. His insides felt torn, and while so much of him longed to be with her, a part of him still had no idea what to do with her earlier admission.

_My full name is Elizabeth Cooper._

_I’m not an escort._

_If that wasn’t real,_ he thought to himself, _then what part of it all was?_

...

“Everything,” Betty said. “I told him everything, V.”

Veronica sighed, pouring more wine into their glasses. “So, I guess Toni lifted the confidentiality clause.”

“Yep. And she wasn’t happy about it.”

“Jesus,” Veronica said. “What a mess.”

Betty stared down at her glass. The wine was helping, at least. She could still feel Jughead’s hand cupping her cheek, the brief, painful moment of elation when she thought he’d kiss her and forgive all, only to have her hopes dashed by the sight of him turning and walking away.

 _I’m sorry,_ he had said. _I can’t do this right now._

What exactly did he mean by “ _this”?_ Did he just mean their conversation? Or something bigger, more significant?

“How did he react?” Veronica asked.

Betty let out a shaky laugh. “Oh. Badly.”

“Really?”

“Well.” Betty sighed. “Not _badly_. Appropriately. He wasn’t angry. Just… disappointed. And hurt. _So_ hurt. Which is more painful, to be honest. I hated seeing him that way. I hated knowing that I caused it.”

“Shouldn’t he be happy?” Veronica asked. “I mean, isn’t this a good thing? That you’re _not_ an escort?”

“That’s not the point, Ronnie,” Betty replied, a little frustrated. She didn’t mean to be short with her best friend, but she was beyond exhausted. “The point… look, the point is…”

Her voice trailed off. What _was_ her point? Veronica looked at her expectantly. She thought about the last three days, and how she knew full well why Jughead was upset by her admission. Why she wasn’t surprised when he walked away.

“I’m not sure I can explain it,” Betty said finally. Veronica leaned back on the counter, waiting for her to elaborate.

 _There are just some truths that matter more,_ she thought. _And the one I told compromised the one we both felt._

She took a deep breath. “It’s like… the whole thing was like… making love,” Betty said.

“Whoa,” Veronica replied. “I’m sorry? _Making love?_ ”

She ignored Veronica’s tone. “Just let me explain. I mean like… in the sense that you can tell someone, in full anatomical detail, what happened - who did what, and how, and where, and you can even _show_ them, in pictures. But no-one will ever know, other than the two of you, what it _felt_ like. Why it meant so much. Why it was so good, and intense, and perfect.”

“Damn.” Veronica let out a low whistle. “But… how does that connect, though? I’m sorry, I’m really trying to understand here.”

“And _that_ is the point.” Betty levelled a gaze at her. “You’re my best friend, V. But I can’t explain, even to _you,_ what happened between me and Jughead these last few days, and why it was such a big deal, why it shifted so much of what I knew about myself and love and everything, and why--” She stopped short, realising what she was about to say out loud to Veronica, and to herself.

“Why what?”

Betty held her breath, trying as hard as she could to swallow the sobs that were rising in her throat. “Why I don’t want to lose him for good.”

…

“Forsythe?”

A voice snapped Jughead back to reality. He’d been at the park for a few hours now, doing nothing more than thinking and staring into space. His emotions were still in a state of flux, but his mind was forming a resolve.

He peeked one eye open to see a familiar face. It was Betty’s friend from the Boathouse - what was his name again...?

“It’s me, Kevin,” the guy said, extending his hand. Behind him, another guy, similarly suited, was idly fiddling with his sleeve, waiting patiently. “Hey, don’t worry, I’m shit with remembering names, too - I just remember yours, ‘cause, you know… _Forsythe._ ”

Jughead chuckled. _Imagine if he knew about ‘Jughead’._ He took Kevin’s proffered hand. “Thanks, man. That saved me.”

“What are you doing here?” Kevin asked brightly. “Is Betty with you?”

There it was. The mere mention of her name was enough to send a frisson of ache through Jughead. It was a small thing, but enough to form a resolution. _Fuck it,_ he thought. _I’m texting her._ He had no idea _what_ , only that he had to. They were in a mess, no doubt, but the mess was worse without her. If anything, she at least deserved to know that he needed to see her again. And _he_ at least wanted to get to the bottom of the truth.

“Um… no, actually,” he replied to Kevin. “I saw her yesterday, though.”

Kevin’s grin widened. “Oh, great! Where’d you guys go?”

“A few places,” Jughead replied, suddenly finding himself pleased to be talking about this with someone outside of him and Betty. “She took me out for bagels at Black Seed, which was nice.”

“She did, huh?” Kevin gave Jughead a coy look. “Funny, that’s actually our thing - me and her. Everyone else thinks we’re idiots because we love them more than the bagels at Gramercy. So we sneak them around in our bags - bagel hipsters be damned.”

“Oh,” Jughead said, feeling a little awkward. “I’m, uh, sorry… I guess?”

“No, no, no, it’s okay. I’m just…” He sighed and smiled fondly at Jughead. “I know it seems like such a shallow New York thing - secret bagel haunts, or whatever. But it’s still significant - Betty taking you around to her favourite spots. In a city as overwhelming as this, you have to hold your places close, like cards to your chest. I still won’t tell her the password for the speakeasy I go to, though.” He laughed.

“Speakeasy?” Jughead was confused. _Man,_ he thought. _New York’s a hell of a place._

“You know, like an old-fashioned underground bar. The city’s crazy about them. Anyplace that could be kept secret in this town, we’re obsessed with.”

Jughead smiled at that. He thought of Betty, and the places she took him to, and even the ones she didn’t - her confession about the Statue of Liberty, and how easily she’d shared that with him. It was like Kevin said: in a city full of secrets, that had to mean something.

Kevin scratched the back of his neck. “Hey, uh, this is kinda awkward, but while I have you here...” Jughead nodded for him to go ahead. “You and Betty haven’t been seeing each other long, right?”

Jughead couldn’t help but chuckle. _Not even four days._ “You can say that, yeah.”

“Okay.” Kevin sat down next to him on the grass. “Listen, I’ve been friends with her for a while. Betty’s pretty special to me.”

“Kevin, look--”  

“I’ll keep this quick, I promise.” Kevin pursed his lips, seeming to measure his words. “I’ve only met you once - well, twice, including now. So I don’t know you all that well. But I did see the two of you briefly at the Boathouse the other day, and look, I’m sure you know this already, but there’s _something_ about the two of you. Well, about _her_. It’s the first time I’ve seen her this giddy and happy about something besides her career. Or decorating her apartment. That’s, you know, a big deal.”

Jughead digested that in silence.

“Betty is not one to date. She socialises, but only just. It’s basically me and her pals from work. So seeing her out with someone… it was actually really nice for a friend to see.” He gave Jughead a long look. “I just thought you should know that.”

“Thanks,” Jughead said sincerely. “That actually… yeah, it means a lot.”

“I’m glad. I’m not really one to be the protective friend, and don’t worry, I won’t be. I’m about as threatening as a ball of yarn, and you… well, you’re _you_.” Jughead laughed at that, at Kevin’s odd assessment of him. He wondered how long that would last - that illusion of power he’d managed to sustain for so long. Or perhaps he had a different kind of power now. Not the practiced pose and swagger of a businessman, but the confidence of someone who knew exactly who he was, and had decided to walk in it.

 _Maybe we both needed to shatter our illusions,_ he thought. _Maybe both of us were living a lie, in our own way._

“Besides,” Kevin said. “Betty doesn’t really need me fighting her battles.”

“She doesn’t?”

“Nah,” Kevin said, getting up. “When Betty Cooper takes a risk on you, that says more about you than anything else.” He smiled down at Jughead. “It means you’re a made man, Forsythe.”

…

“So what are you gonna do about the article?” Veronica asked.

Betty exhaled a long breath. “That, at least, is resolved.”

“Oh?” Veronica’s dark brows furrowed together. “How?”

“I’m not writing it.”

Veronica gaped at her. “Wait, are you serious?”

“Yep.”

“But… but you _pitched_ that article!” She was spluttering. “The entire issue hinges on that story! It _revolves_ around the story!"

“V, please--”

“How did Toni even allow it? How did she _take_ it?”

“Not well at all, I can tell you that.”

“You _think?!”_ Veronica threw her hands up. “B, I stayed up last night finishing layout for that issue. Are they just gonna--”

“They’re not gonna can it, Ronnie. Besides, I offered to resign on the spot.”

That stilled Veronica immediately. “No. You did _not_.”

“I did. I wrote two things last night - one was an actual resignation letter. Official letterhead and all.” She gave her a small smile. “Toni tore it up.”

“Of course she would. But…” Betty could see that Veronica’s mind was furiously trying to comprehend what she’d just said. “Betty, come on, are you really doing this for a guy you’ve known for three days?”

“God, no. Come on, V, you know me better than that. For _me_. For my own peace of mind.”

“Okay. But what does that even _mean_?”

“It means I don’t want a lie to be my legacy, Veronica! Not even if it vaults me straight to the top. Not at the expense of _me_ , and definitely not at the expense of _him._ ”

Veronica fell silent at that.

Betty continued, “You remember our first conversation about this, right? Right after I’d pitched it? You asked me why I wanted to do this, and I said that I wanted to take a risk, that I wanted to know myself.” She was standing now, impassioned and resolved. “Well, I’ve done both, and you know what I’ve found out? I can only write about what’s true. It’s what makes me a _damn_ good writer, and it’s what keeps me from writing this. And I _can_ take risks - I took a damn big one this morning when I told Jughead the truth, and I’m taking one now. This isn’t just about the article, Veronica. And it isn’t just about him. Ultimately, this is a decision for _myself_.”

Veronica regarded her, the silence expanding as she seemed to take in everything Betty had said. She sighed. “God, what actually _happened_ in that penthouse, Betty?”

“Nothing, really,” she murmured. “And everything. Something about him just… exposed me.”

“That sounds intense,” Veronica said.

“It was,” Betty said. And now, even now, she could still feel his hands on her skin. If she closed her eyes, she could taste the warm intensity with which he kissed her that morning.

“So… what now?” Veronica asked. “What’s happening between the two of you?”

Betty shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know if he still wants me.” Unconsciously, she held the back of her hand to her cheek to try and steady the tears that threatened to burst out with that thought. “But at least… well, he knows who I am now. I guess we both do, in more ways than one. And if that means I still lose him, then…”

Veronica reached across and placed her hand over hers. “Are you… will you be okay?”

“It’s fine. Honestly, I’ll be fine.” Veronica raised an eyebrow at her, hearing - as a best friend did - her uncertainty. The look she gave her was clear - would she? Actually? Betty simply shrugged. 

Veronica took up her duties as sommelier again, pouring more wine into their glasses. “You said you’d written two things,” she said. “One was your resignation letter. What was the other one?”

Betty put down her glass, rummaging in her bag for her laptop. She opened it and turned it towards Veronica. “This.”

“What is it?”

“Just… read it.”

Veronica’s eyes scanned from left to right as she read through the document. She paused, and looked up at Betty. “No way. _No fucking_ _way._ Are you kidding me?”

“Nope.”

“How did you even manage to convince her?”

“I didn’t. Keep reading.”

Veronica did. She was silent as she scanned the page, before letting out a huge sigh. “B. Wow.”

“It’s a lot, right?”

“It’s… everything.” Veronica shook her head. “Does Jughead know all this?”

“Some of it,” Betty said, sighing.

“Don’t you think that you should tell him? Wouldn’t this, I don’t know, lead him back to you?”

“Jughead knows right now what he wants,” Betty said. “I don’t want to manipulate his decision. I want to respect how he feels. And if he still feels betrayed after everything… well, that’s his call. Not mine.”

“But--”

“Veronica, please trust me on this.” She closed her laptop. “I have shown him my soul, and he has shown me his. I know it sounds crazy, but believe me: he knows enough.”

...

Jughead sprinted out of the park to hail a cab.

His conversation with Kevin had made one thing clear - that while he and Betty were both living an illusion, underneath it all was a profound truth.

They belonged to each other. And he’d be _damned_ if he allowed himself to live another five years not pursuing what he wanted.

After hurriedly thanking and saying goodbye to Kevin (and what turned to be his date from the Boathouse, Joaquin), he ran in the direction of Park Avenue, sticking his hand out in what he hoped passed for a decent imitation of a New Yorker. He practically jumped into the cab when it pulled up.

“The Greenwich, please,” he said, panting. He could have gone straight to _Lilith_ headquarters, but he knew he couldn’t face Betty empty-handed. He needed to show her exactly what she meant to him, so he was rushing back to pick up the one thing that could show her.

The driver looked at him through the rearview hotel. “Yo, you a tourist? Did you mean the village, like Greenwich Village? Or the hotel?”

“Uh, the hotel. I think.” Was the Greenwich _in_ the Village? He was confused.

“That the one near the film centre?”

“I think so.”

The driver looked a little skeptical about Jughead’s directions, but he only shrugged. “Alright, man. It’s your money.”

The guy seemed to like driving fast, weaving in and out of lanes with almost alarming speed, but it still didn’t feel fast enough for Jughead. He was trying to call Betty, but his calls weren’t even going through, taking him straight into her voicemail each time. At first, he hung up straightaway, but when she still wouldn’t pick up, he decided to leave a message - or, as it turned out, a few.

First message: “Betty, are you there? Can you call me back, please?”

Second message: “Betty, we need to talk. It’s all clear to me now. Please pick up.”

By the third message, the desperation was setting in. Where _was_ she? “Betty, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please. At least let me know you’re okay. Call me back.”

“Ay, dude, if ain’t talkin’ to you, she ain’t talkin’ to you,” the driver piped up. “You one of them stalker guys or something? That’s messed up. Leave the girl alone.”

Jughead laughed out of embarrassment. “No, I’m actually trying to win her back.”

“Oh, for real?” The driver grinned at him in the mirror. “Why didn’t you say so? Hold on tight back there.”

Seemingly within minutes (and with Jughead quite seriously thinking that he was going to die before actually seeing Betty), the cab pulled up in front of the Greenwich. Jughead threw a hundred into the passenger seat and practically fell out of the car. The driver whooped in delight and called after him, “Ay yo, get your girl, son!”

“I will!” Jughead yelled back as he ran into the lobby.

“Mr. Jones!” the concierge blurted out as he ran in. A few guests looked startled. “One moment please, I have--”

“Sorry, man, I’m in a rush,” he replied, his breath ragged as he headed towards the private elevator that led to the penthouse.

“Sir, just a quick word,” the concierge said as they waited outside the doors. “Miss Betty dropped by, just a few hours ago.”

Jughead stopped in his tracks. “She did?” He panicked. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“She didn't look like she meant to stay. She left us a package to put in your room. We’ve placed it in the main bedroom.”

Jughead was alarmed. What could she have left? The elevator doors opened before them with a whoosh. He thanked the concierge before stepping in, desperately counting the seconds before he could step into the penthouse.

He rushed out the moment the doors opened. The room had been made up, and the coffee pot and plates that had littered his floor that morning were now gone. His laptop was closed and placed neatly on the coffee table.

Walking into his bedroom, he saw it: a flat, medium-sized package wrapped in brown paper and twine making a soft dent on the sheets. Underneath the knot, a small note.

Jughead sat down. He decided to save the note for last. He slipped it out, placing it on the side, before opening the package and reaching inside.

The material was soft, familiar to his touch. It triggered a tactile memory - this was something he owned. He pulled it out and saw grey. Unfurling it, he recognised it at last.

His ‘S’ shirt. The one Betty had worn and taken home the past few nights.

Jughead was alarmed. _Why would she return this?_

His heart pounding, he picked up the note, reading the words in Betty’s strong, graceful cursive.

_“Lastly, do I vow, that mine eyes desire you above all things.”_

_I could have loved you, Jug. I’m already halfway there. -B_

His breath hitched. Those last words - “I’m already halfway there” - filled him with a powerful sense of euphoria. Like he could do anything. Like his veins were pumped with fire and plutonium.

But that she _could have_ loved him _...?_ And the quote above it, why was it so familiar?

“Katherine of Aragon,” he muttered to himself, recognising the line - a dying queen’s last words to her estranged husband, King Henry VIII.

Why was Betty quoting her?

Then he remembered.

The way he’d turned away from her, forgetting to respond to such a simple request. _Say the word and you’ll never have to see me again._

It had been hours.

And he hadn’t said a _word_.

Jughead flew across the room and tore through his suitcase, clothes flying everywhere. He didn’t have a minute to lose. Who knows what change of heart Betty could reach in the hours since she’d thought that he had rejected her? Swearing under his breath, he reached into the secret pocket of his bag and pulled out his manuscript - the one with the story he finished last night - before reaching for the hotel phone on the nightstand.

“A car,” he managed to say. “To Flatiron District, _Lilith_ head office. I’ll give the address on the way.”

...

Jughead didn’t mean to startle the raven-haired woman with the high heels and diamond studs, who apparently was the last one in the _Lilith_ office.

He had managed to get past the security barrier with a mix of luck and preparation. He was wearing his best Oxfords and his most expensive blazer over his shirt and jeans, and years of practice, of wearing the pose, meant that he still looked every inch a powerful business broker.

There were groups of people coming out of the elevators, and the barrier gates were open. Still, Jughead couldn’t just make a run for it - that was too obvious. He hesitated. A security guard eyed him. “You alright there, sir?” he asked. “Who you here to see?”

Jughead reached into his wallet and pulled out a business card. “Forsythe Jones from Southside Motors. _Lilith_ called me in for an interview...?”

“Right.” The guard waived him through, unquestioning. Jughead wondered if the guy even knew what _Lilith_ wrote about. It definitely wasn’t hybrid trucks.

“Oh, and sir,” the guard called after him. “Big fan of the new Macomber, by the way. It looks sleek.”

Jughead smiled and nodded in acknowledgment. It was still amusing for him to think that of all people, his father had let _him_ name their first publicly-released vehicle after a character in a Hemingway short story. Days ago, he would have taken that with bitterness: here was FP, taking his son’s desires and interests, making a mockery of them, absorbing them into something he knew nothing about. Today, however, a free man, Jughead recognised a twisted sense of love in it. Perhaps it was FP’s own way of trying to build a legacy for him, one that didn’t involve drunken nights and empty bottles.

The lights were starting to flicker off in the _Lilith_ office. Jughead ran towards the doors and tried to push them open - no good. They were locked.

He peered in, trying to see if there was anyone inside. The office was a cheerful kind of messy - stacks of magazine boxes piled high on tops of desks, dreamcatchers and bunting hanging from the ceiling, posters with feminist slogans plastered on the walls. Despite the urgency of the moment, he remembered Jellybean, and smiled. She would have loved to have seen all this.

Suddenly, movement. A brunette walked into view, frowning as she leafed through some paper. Without thinking, Jughead pounded madly on the glass doors. “Hey!” he shouted.

She saw him, dropped her papers on the floor, and screamed.

“No, no!” Desperately, he took his business card and held it up against the glass. “Look, see - it’s me! Jughead Jones? From Elizabeth Cooper’s assignment? I’m looking for Betty, please.”

The girl’s demeanour immediately changed. She walked quickly and purposefully towards him with an expression Jughead couldn’t read. When she unlocked the doors, there was silence as she studied him. It seemed that she was still trying to figure out what expression to fix her face into - whether rage, or curiosity.

“Hey, I’m sorry for scaring you, but have you seen Betty?” Jughead asked. “Is she here?”

“No,” the girl replied. She crossed her arms. “Everyone’s gone for the day. What do you want from her?”

“Uh. That’s... confidential.” Jughead didn’t mean to be rude. But he was on a schedule.

She gave him a wary look. “Well, considering she’s told me exactly how your last conversation went, I’d say I have a partial slice in that confidentiality.” She held out her hand. “Veronica Lodge. Entertainment Editor for _Lilith,_ but more importantly for _you_ , Betty’s best friend.”

Jughead sighed in relief. Finally, someone he could talk to. “You wouldn’t happen to know where Betty is, would you?”

“She’s probably home,” Veronica replied. “I haven’t called her, but I have a feeling she doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

Jughead was silent. He didn’t know what to say in front of this Veronica - he had no idea what Betty had told her, and how she saw him now.

Veronica put her hands in her pockets and fixed her dark gaze on him. “Why are you here, Jughead?”

“I wanted…” His fingers gripped his manuscript tightly. “I wanted to show her this. It’s something I wrote. For her.”

“You’re a writer?”

“I’m trying to be one, yeah.”

“I thought you were the head of Southside Motors.”

“Well, no. I technically wasn’t the head - that’s my dad. I used to manage Publicity.”

“‘Used to’?”

“I, uh, resigned yesterday.”

“ _Oh._ ” Veronica raised her eyebrows. “Well. Good thing I didn’t invest in your company stocks, then.”

Jughead broke into an awkward laugh. “I suppose, yeah.”

Veronica gave a slight smile. He took that as a good sign. She gestured towards the manuscript. “So, what did you write for Betty?”

“Oh, I… I kind of wanted her to be the first to read it.”

“Fair enough.” She sighed. “Look, Jughead, I’m not gonna lie. Betty was in bad shape when she left, although not as bad as when she first walked in. She mentioned something about dropping something off at your hotel - did you get that package?”

“Yes, I did.” 

“I wish I could tell you where she went after that, but... she kind of just wanted to be alone. It’s been a rough 24 hours for her. Our boss has given her the week off.”

Jughead jaw clenched. He hated this. Hated that with just _one word_ they could have both avoided it.

“You’re not what I expected, you know,” Veronica said out of the blue.

“Oh. Really?”

“No. I… expected some car mogul hotshot, I think. And you’re not that.”

“To be honest, I never really was.”

“Right,” she said. “And also, forgive me for saying this, but I didn’t think you’d be this beat up about the whole thing, either. You look just about as broken up as she did.”

Jughead exhaled, channeling his frustration at himself into the breath. If he learned anything today, it would be that something primal stirred up in him at the thought of Betty being broken. He wanted to detonate something. He wanted to kiss her senseless. He just wanted her happy.

“Sorry,” Veronica said. “Didn’t mean to call you a mess.”

“No, I…” He nodded, assenting to her conclusion. “Well. Yeah.”

“One thing I always suspected, though, and I’m definitely right about it--” Veronica affixed a significant look at him. “You’re both crazy for each other. Absolutely _terrible_ with timing, but I guess that’s why you’re both fixing it, right?”

“Well, yeah,” Jughead replied. “Timing-wise... It’s funny you say that. I’ve carried this thing around with me for years. For the longest time, it was just languishing in my suitcase while I lived a double life, and lived for someone else. I ignored it, and even when I tried, when I actually had the time, I still couldn’t write a fucking thing.”

He sighed, and gripped his manuscript tighter.

“But ever since she’s walked into my life, I… I can’t stop. The words are pouring out of me,” he said. “But more than that, I feel like I’m _real,_ you know? Like I could feel my own skin, breathe air into my lungs for the first time in years. So I don’t know about timing. Do I wish that we’d never met that way? I don’t know. But the timing seems pretty perfect to me.”

Veronica rubbed her nose. Jughead became aware that she was trying not to cry. He was startled. He didn’t realise he’d moved her in any way, and he hadn’t even meant to. He was just being honest.

She collected herself. “You two are made for each other, you know that?” Veronica said, bending down to rifle through the papers she’d dropped on the ground. Jughead bent down to help her. “And I don’t just mean in a cheesy, Nicholas Sparks kinda way. I mean that…”

Veronica picked out a piece of paper - printed, neatly typed. At the bottom, Jughead spied Betty’s cursive signature, and a time stamp. It had only been handed in hours ago. He looked at Veronica quizzically.

“Here. She kinda wrote something for you, too."

He took the proffered paper, surprised to see his hand steady. His pulse was racing.

"Betty gave that article up, you know," Veronica said. "Our boss gave her the honour of writing the Editor's Letter for this issue of our newsletter. You should read it." 

Jughead nodded dumbly.

"I’ll call an Uber to take you to her place,” she said, standing up and leaving him on the floor of the _Lilith_ lobby.

He turned his eyes to the page. He’d never read Betty’s writing before. And now, here he was.

He began to read.

…

_Ernest Hemingway - an author I once used to loathe - wrote, “All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence you know.”_

_We here at_ Lilith _think that we do a really good job of honouring the truth, and particularly, the truths of women everywhere. Now, I say ‘truths’ -_ plural _\- because you and I know that as girls, as individuals, we live out multiple stories in our own lives, all of them equally valid and beautiful and… well, true._

_My true self on the subway is a girl who plugs her earphones in to listen to anything between Taylor Swift and the Smiths and, on bad days, Rage Against The Machine._

_At home, it’s a girl in her pyjamas folding laundry and watching Netflix and eating junk food. On hot days, she does this naked._

_At work, it’s a girl who writes, and laughs with her co-workers, and pursues leads - sometimes at the expense of her own health and wellbeing._

_These are stories that are all too easy to tell - they’re mundane, ordinary, and ultimately harmless._

_But there are stories, too, that are unheard. Because so often, they are misunderstood or seen as dangerous._

_For years, Penelope Emile Blossom was the most famous madame in all of Manhattan, running a so-called ‘gentlemen's club’ for the rich and famous, accumulating stories along the way - ones that she could never tell. Why? Because all too often, those stories were told_ FOR _her. Stories that she was a victim. A pariah. A danger to children. An emblem of sin and the failing morality of the city._

_But this was never really her story._

_Penelope would introduce herself first as a mother. Then, as a passionate student of the world. An aspiring film critic. And maybe, somewhere along the way, she’ll tell you about the job she loved for years, the men and women she met and had sex with, and the incredible glimpse she gained into New York’s most intimate secrets._

_In this special edition of the_ Lilith _newsletter, we hear and honour that story, as well as the stories of sex workers everywhere. Penelope leads as our feature profile, giving us a brief excerpt from her memoirs - a narrative she has been waiting to tell for so long, and that we are privileged to publish here._

_Penelope, we celebrate your truth and your story, and the light it sheds on the often-misunderstood world of sex work. May we listen and learn and glean from your honesty and experience._

_To return to Hemingway, I asked Penelope today to write down the truest sentence she knew. She wrote this: “My beauty is a weapon, but it is mine alone to wield.”_

_She then turned to me and asked me to write mine. I said I couldn’t. My truest sentence, I said to her, was a person. A man who loves Hemingway, and hates alcohol._

_Reader, what would be yours?_

 

**_Elizabeth Cooper_ **

_News Editor,_ Lilith

_..._

Jughead had no idea how long he sat there, how many times he read through those last few sentences.

_My truest sentence was a person. A man who loves Hemingway, and hates alcohol._

She was never going to write the article.

A million thoughts were coursing through his head, none of them coherent, and It was only when Veronica nudged him gently, to tell him that his Uber was waiting downstairs to take him to Betty’s apartment, that he remembered what he had to do. Even then, he moved as if in a fog, dazed by the passion and the raw honesty of what he’d just read.

“You okay?” Veronica asked.

He was silent for a little while. He turned to her. “Just one question. Is she always this brilliant?”

“No,” Veronica replied, smiling. “She’s better.”

Jughead nodded, suddenly a little embarrassed of the paltry story he held in his hands. “Hey,” Veronica said. “She’ll love what you wrote, whatever it is. I’m sure it’s… what does Hemingway say? The truest thing you’ve ever written.”

“It is.” He exhaled. “Thank you, Veronica.”

“No problem.” She then leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “Now go get your girl.”

…

Betty’s apartment, as it turned out, was only minutes away from the Greenwich. Veronica had called ahead to her doorman, telling him to expect a gentleman in a linen navy blazer, holding a bundle of paper. The guy waved Jughead straight through. He didn’t bother with the elevator, running the stairs up, taking two steps at a time, to the second floor where she lived.

He knocked on the door, trying to make it sound urgent, but not wishing to terrify anyone else like he did with Veronica earlier. “Betty?” he said, his voice echoing flatly against the wooden door. “Betty, baby. Please open up.”

 _Baby._ That the term of endearment came out surprised him. That it felt _natural_ shocked him even more.

But still, nothing.

“Betty. Please. I’m so sorry. Please let me in.”

Maybe she didn’t want to see him. Maybe she decided that a whole day of waiting for a response was too long. It made him panic. Had he lost his chance?

He kept knocking desperately, but something didn’t feel right. He thought of Betty, about how she would have been feeling, and wondered whether she would have gone home. She definitely wouldn’t have gone to the Greenwich.

It was then that he realised.

That he had known all along.

That she had already shown him before.

He tore down the stairs and out into the street, raising his hand to hail a cab.

...

At night, the New York Public Library looked different - more stately, more imposing than it did during the day. Its grey walls and pillars were lit up, standing proudly against the inky black night and the glittering gold lights of Manhattan.

“Last call for loans, visits, gifts, what have you,” a security guard out the front called out to the still-teeming crowd of library patrons and tourists. “We close in thirty minutes, people.”

Jughead ran in, ignoring security’s entreaties to slow down. Past the gift shop. Past the marble staircases. Past the Rose Reading Room in all its high-ceilings grandeur. He somehow remembered, in the rush, the stairs he needed to take to the second floor - the Fiction section.

The area was only half-lit, and patrons were beginning to file out. “We’re closing soon, hon,” a librarian said as she walked past. He nodded, thinking only of the hope he held, the hope that he was right, and that she was here.

He rushed past the shelves. A for Austen. B for Bronte. C for Carver. Down to E for Eliot, F for Finch...

He stopped to take a breath.

H.

For Hemingway.

His heart pounding, he turned the corner.

There she was, on the floor, head down, cross-legged, earphones plugged in. His guess was right. In her hand - he rejoiced - was an open volume of _The Old Man and The Sea._

Seeing his shadow cast over her book, she looked up. Her face registered shock. Her lips began to form his name, but he spoke first.

“You’re here,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper, his joy uncontainable. “Betty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter came out thick and fast and felt like a literal punch to the gut. I thought this was going to be an easy chapter, but as it turned out, it was the most emotionally brutal. That being said, it is also my absolute favourite. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Eagle-eyed readers will remember a seemingly throwaway line from Toni in Chapter 1 (“Penelope would be more than happy to be interviewed. She’s been talking about recording her memoirs anyway”). This, from the early days of the fic, became the natural hingepoint of how Betty gets out of writing the article. I hope it’s been clear enough from the past chapters that Betty gets to a place where she simply cannot justify writing the article while finding a truer version of herself as she interacts with Jughead. I think it’s a lovely ending for Penelope, too. Everyone finds their truth. 
> 
> Bringing Kevin and Veronica into the fore was a nice way to confirm externally the chemistry between Betty and Jughead. I hope you enjoyed seeing them again (and also seeing Kevin have his second date with Joaquin!). 
> 
> Details about Union Square Park are purely from online research. I’ve strived to make them as accurate as I can, but acknowledge any errors. Gramercy is also another place for bagels - it’s consistently ranked above Black Seed on Yelp, but I like to imagine that Betty and Kevin prefer Black Seed.
> 
> For anyone who's enjoying the music recommendations, I've compiled a playlist for the fic [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/31kgdgzysdrr96rja6xfxsuo1/playlist/1USc8SIoRu55gufB8obwjj?si=9QS5YOWPQ9mLMrfuLsjXYw). This chapter, of course, was set in my mind to "Runnin'" by Naughty Boy and Beyonce. 
> 
> Lastly, my apologies to everyone still awaiting comments on the last chapter - I am attending to them as we speak!
> 
> Thank you, as ever, SO MUCH, for reading.


	10. the real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **real (adj.)**
> 
> actually existing as a thing or occurring in fact; not imagined or supposed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs to read this chapter by: "Better Love" by Glades, "Waking Up Slow" (Piano Version) by Gabrielle Aplin and "Love Me Like You Do" by Ellie Goulding.
> 
> Fic playlist: [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/31kgdgzysdrr96rja6xfxsuo1/playlist/1USc8SIoRu55gufB8obwjj?si=SfHesVV3RXiccYOu3kKxPQ/)

Betty thought she had seen the last of Jughead Jones.

When she deposited the package containing his shirt into the hands of the puzzled Greenwich concierge, she’d done so with the assumption that that was it: they were done. There was a sense of closure to the gesture, and when she walked away, it felt like a final goodbye.

At that point, Betty felt that she had waited long enough and that the silence from Jughead was all the response she needed. Besides, it had been hours since their last, heartbreaking conversation in front of her building. She wasn’t going to wait any longer when it was clear that he wasn’t coming back.

“You holding up alright?” Veronica had asked. They were sitting in her living room, Betty clinically folding paper over the grey ‘S’ shirt she’d creased neatly into a square.

“Not really,” Betty replied honestly. Veronica frowned and went into the kitchen to make more mimosas.

After hugging Veronica goodbye and thanking her for the day, Betty was barely able to make it out of the apartment in one piece. The sound of the cab door closing was like a white flag being dropped to the ground, and with that - at last - she surrendered to the finality of it all, and allowed herself to fall apart.

It was a waste. All of it. She held the package to her chest as she cried silently in the backseat, not caring that the paper was dampening under the fall of her tears. The urge to open it and breathe its scent in one last time came and went. Besides, it didn’t smell like _him_ anymore: it smelled like her, having worn it three nights in a row. She tried not to think about how Jughead would react upon opening it. Would he wear it still? Would he let it graze his skin as it grazed hers - their final contact, conducted through an old t-shirt? Or would he throw it away in hurt, in disgust? The thought of it - of him pushing the memory of _her_ away, even symbolically - made her wince in pain, bringing on a fresh onslaught of emotion.

When the car pulled up to the Greenwich, Betty instructed the cab driver to wait and keep the meter running. “I’ll be just a minute,” she said through the window. He looked slightly skeptical and was surprised when she opened the car door a little more than a minute later, just as promised, asking to be dropped off at the Library.

Toni had given her the week off, and already, Betty foresaw herself staying in here for hours at a time. She would read herself to a stupor if she had to. She would consume every book in the Fiction section if she had to. She would stay in there and allow millions of words to wash over her until every emotion she ever felt for Jughead disappeared into the ether and left her raw and emptied and unable to risk and love again.

But now…

_“You’re here.”_

Now, all of her plans - to read, to wallow, to shut down - were dissolving into thin air.

Because there stood Jughead, right before her - real and breathing and closer than ever.

“Betty,” he half-whispered into the otherwise empty row between the two shelves.

She stared at him in disbelief. His chest was rising rapidly as he panted, mirroring the hitch in her own lungs as she scarcely remembered how to breathe. It was obvious that he’d been running. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and she saw, clutched in his hand, a rudimentary booklet with a title typed on the cover. She stood up to face him, forgetting the book on her lap, and with a thud, it fell open onto the floor.

“Jughead, what…” She shook her head in shock and amazement. “How did you…”

“Final call for loans!” a voice called out from somewhere distant. “We’re closing this section in five!”

They stared at each other, longing barely disguised in their gaze, dancing like flames behind their eyes. There was a distance of a few paces between them - the span of several books.

“I read your Editor’s Letter,” he blurted out.

“ _What_?” Her eyes widened. “How?”

“I’m sorry, I…” He was stammering. “I went to _Lilith._ To look for you. Your friend, Veronica - she was there. And she showed me.”

Betty shut her eyes as she absorbed this. _Veronica_ . Meeting _Jughead_. Her protective, mercurial best friend meeting a man that she had every reason to distrust - a man that she, Betty, had cried about in her apartment all afternoon. She hoped Veronica had been kind to him.

Jughead continued, “Look, I’m sorry if I wasn’t meant to see that. I had something that I’d written. For _you_. And I was desperate for her to tell me where you were, so I told her, and she ended up showing the letter to me.”

She looked down at her feet, suddenly conscious of how vulnerable she’d been in those last few lines. “ _My truest sentence, I said to her, was a person,”_ she had written. “ _A man who loves Hemingway, and hates alcohol."_ She had every reason to think that Jughead would be well out of her life by the time it went to publication. How could she have thought that they’d be discussing it _now_ , of all times, hours after she thought she’d let him go?

“It was... beautiful. And brilliant.” He shook his head in incredulity. “You’re a phenomenal writer, Betty.”

_That_ caught her off guard. It was a simple statement - one that had been said to her in varying ways throughout her career. But to hear it from _Jughead_ was strange, and it also meant the world. Because suddenly, as if by magic, she felt herself becoming corporeal in front of him; the full version of herself, uncovered and untainted by disguise. She was Elizabeth Cooper, the writer, as well as the woman. Jughead had glimpsed this final, secret part of herself, and he was okay with it, and he was _here._

“But that’s not what I came here to say.” He cleared his throat. “I came here to tell you that… that you were right, Betty.”

“About what?”

“About everything.” He held his hands out. “It was real. All of it.”

_It still is,_ she wanted to say, but she could barely trust herself to speak. Jughead was looking at her expectantly, but she had no idea what to say.

“You know, Veronica actually thought you’d gone home, and I…” He laughed shortly. “I ran to your building like a madman and banged on your apartment door and probably pissed off everyone on your floor.”

_He was at my apartment?_ Shock after shock tonight. How did he even get past the doorman?

“I wanted desperately to tell you what I’d failed to say right before I walked off. _Of course_ I want to see you again. Not just this week, but the next. And the one after that. And--” He exhaled in frustration and ran his hands through hair. “Look, I’m gonna be apologising my whole life for not letting you know right away - for not telling you that _I felt it, too,_ Betty. I felt every part of it, and however falsely it started, it’s real now, and I’m here, and I want it all. With you.”

But she could hardly hear him. She was still in shock. Veronica, her own best friend, couldn’t even pinpoint where she was. She thought she went home. _So how did he…_ “How did you even know?” she asked. “How did you know that I’d be _here_?”

He shrugged helplessly. “Because I know you,” he replied. “And I had a feeling.”

Betty allowed that to wash over her before she mustered the courage to respond.

“You... you had a feeling,” she said.

“Yeah. I did.”

“And what,” she said, stepping forward, finally bold enough to approach him, “was that feeling, Jughead?”

A thud. She looked down. He’d dropped the booklet he was holding, and it lay splayed open on the floor, right next to the one she’d been reading. He was getting closer to her now, and suddenly, Betty had a strange sense of _deja vu:_ it wasn’t too long ago that they’d played out this exact moment right here, in this exact same spot. How could it be that she had lived lifetimes since then? How could it be that in the space of a few short days, she had learned how to take a risk, to fall in love, to fear its sting, and to know it all over again?

“That you’d be here, in your most secret of places, because of what brings everyone else here,” he said. “You were looking for a story.”

_That_ was unexpected. But nothing would throw her off her course. Closer now. One more step. “And you…?” She hesitated, her voice small, the emotion rising in her throat. “Did you find one, Jughead?”

“Yes. And no.” They were now a breath away from each other. He cupped her face with both hands. With a buzz, all the lights went out - the final dismissal of all the library’s patrons. In the dark, she felt rather than heard his words, an intimate whisper between hundreds and thousands of pages, of stories of conquest and victory and loss and love.

“I was hoping you’d help me write a new one.”

...

Moments later, a librarian would call out, “Anyone left in here?”

In between Jughead’s frantic hands and the dull roar in her ears, her teeth caught furiously on his lip and tongues that danced between their mouths, Betty wondered: _But is there anything left of_ me _?_

Because the kiss between them consumed _all_ of her - it consumed them both. As they realised that every wall and barrier between them had now collapsed, they helped themselves to each other, to everything and everything.

She felt her body tremble, as though it recognised a continuation of the moment they had missed the day before - clothes tugged off, kisses exchanged before her mind rudely interrupted. This time, with every truth laid out on the table, there was really only thing left to do.

“Jug, I…”

“I know,” he said, his fingers tangled in her hair, bringing their foreheads close together. “Me, too.”

But what _did_ they know? Betty couldn’t wrap words around it, and she suspected that Jughead couldn’t, either. Probably a few things. _I know intimacy,_ she thought. _And hope, and the nakedness of honesty, and infinite, unspeakable joy. I know_ you _._

“I want…” Her voice trailed off.

The tempo of their kiss slowed down, and he reluctantly parted from her. His blue eyes bore into her green, but she saw that there really wasn’t much blue left, because his pupils were dark and blown out and full of need.

“Betty, I want to hear you say it,” he said. “Tell me what you want.”

The urgency in his voice caught her off-guard. Somewhere in the inner recesses of her mind, she heard a deep rumble of thunder, and then she remembered how kissing him felt like lightning, and then she recognised now what storm was threatening to pull them both under.

“Your rules may be gone, but not mine,” he said. “I am not touching you unless you want me to.”

She brushed his lip with her finger. “Good. Because I want you to,” she said. She held his gaze, and pressed her hips forward, meeting his. “I want _you_ , Jughead. Tonight.”

He replied with a fierce kiss and uttered a word into the dark that would set about the chaotic whirlwind of the night.

“Okay.”

...

The private elevator to the TriBeCa penthouse was located in a dimly lit, discreet entrance around the corner from the concierge desk. The elevator took a while to arrive, but Jughead didn’t mind. Or rather, he was barely aware, because his head and his hands were full of Betty Cooper, who was pressed up between his body and the wall.

He’d barely survived the cab ride back to the Greenwich. In the dim of the backseat, she folded her body into his, her hand slipping underneath the fabric of his blazer to caress his skin. He pulled her closer, inhaling a scent he thought he’d lost access to just hours before - a field of flowers underneath a bright blue sky.

How he managed to contain himself in the car, he didn’t know, but in the tight passageway containing the penthouse elevator, away from prying eyes, he let go of any reservations he’d had in the cab and kissed her with every ounce of craving he’d held back in the last few days. And the way she kissed him back - frantic and needing and heated - he could tell she craved him just as much.

They barely broke their kiss when the elevator doors opened with a _ding,_ and they made their way in fumbling blindly for each other.

“God, Betty, I need you,” he rasped.

“Me, too,” she gasped out as she hooked her leg around him, skirt riding up. He took her arms and pinned them above her head, holding her wrists as her body wound up beneath him.

They stayed there for a moment, the two of them shamelessly grinding against one another. He was achingly hard, and he knew she could feel that through the layers of clothing still frustratingly between them. Betty wrestled one wrist out of his grip and half-ripped his shirt open, the buttons falling to the ground with a clatter.

“Sure hope that wasn’t too expensive,” she mumbled cheekily into his mouth.

“Betty, I really don’t fucking care about anyone and anything right now but _you_.”

That seemed to be the right thing to say, because Betty backed away briefly to look at him, her eyes glazed over, lips parted as she tugged lightly at the sash keeping her dress shut. It came loose, and for the fifth time in four days, Jughead glimpsed Betty’s half-naked body - but this time, on both her terms and his.

Underneath her clothes, she was wearing a simple, matching set - black, lined with a subtle strip of satin, but with the material thin enough to see her nipples, pink and peaking the fabric. His eyes skated over her curved, softly muscular form, and his mouth went dry upon seeing the glistening dip of her core, moisture beading on her panties.

“Touch me, then,” she whispered.

“Here? Now?”

She quirked an eyebrow at him, taunting. “What do you think?”

No, that brash arrogance wouldn’t do. Jughead tugged on her a little roughly, placing one knee firmly between her legs before slipping one hand around her waist, another over the supple slope of her breast. “Like this?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “But harder.”

_Oh, harder. I can fucking do harder._ Without a measure of restraint, he caressed and kneaded the heavy flesh, his mind aflame with the fullness of her tits, thumbing her nipple over the useless, _infuriating_ material that separated his skin over hers. Bending his head down, he sucked harshly on them through the fabric. Collarbones sharpened into shadows as she drew in a swift breath, and his chest swelled with a sense of masculine pride at having drawn that reaction from her.

But it had been _four_ days. He was bursting with the ache to do _more_ . He was wild with the thought of her, wild with love for this Betty Cooper. He’d fantasised over this for days - to envelope himself with the feel of her, the smell of her, the _taste_ of her.

Jughead tore his eyes from her body. The button for the emergency stop was right there, right next to where her hand gripped white-knuckled onto the brass railing. He remembered the one time he got stuck inside Southside Motors’ headquarters. If the building was anything like theirs - its elevator armed with a self-assessing mechanism that tried to fix the issue before finally signalling for external help - then he had all of five minutes. At _most_.

That, he thought, would be enough.

Jughead hit the button, and the elevator shuddered to a halt before booming out a tinny, pre-recorded message: “Emergency mode. Automated assessment commencing.”

Betty was startled, but he moved in to press his body up against her. “You trust me?”

She looked uncertain but intrigued. “Um, yeah…?”

“Alright,” he half-growled. “Hold still.”

Slowly, he got to his knees, and when she realised what he was about to do - what part of her he was desperate to taste - she bit her lip, nodded her consent, and pulled her flimsy panties down, leaving them looped on one ankle as she spread her thighs apart for him.

Four and a half minutes.

“I’ve wanted to do this the moment I first saw you wearing my shirt,” he murmured into her hip. “Just so you know.”

Betty responded by curling her fingers tightly into the locks of his hair. Painful. Pleasurable.

He kissed the lower swell of her stomach, before working his way down, down until he reached the very core of her. _God_ , she was wet. He lapped experimentally, earning a tremor that he could feel beneath his hands, and licked and sucked and swirled while she unravelled beneath his clever tongue. Shamelessly, she writhed into his mouth before hooking her leg into his shoulder to take him in deeper, her moans filling the small space.

Three minutes.

“Fuck _,_ ” she whispered. _Good god,_ Jughead thought. Had he heard her cuss like that before? He decided it was the sexiest thing he’d ever heard. He’d make her do it again if he could - utter a string of incoherent filth to form a beautiful symphony for his ears.

Maybe later.

Or maybe _now_.

Two minutes, maybe less.

Soon, he felt her quaking, building to a frenzy. His hair was a mess in her fingers, but he didn’t care, as he lashed her core from clit to cunt, inscribing himself into the very deeps of her. Betty was falling apart, a writhing mess with her knees buckling and bra pulled akimbo over her breasts, which now bounced and jiggled to the rhythm of her thrusts against Jughead’s tongue.

One—

“Hold on,” he said roughly. “Grip your hands here.” Betty, though whining at the loss of contact, did as she was told, holding onto the elevator railing with both hands.

“Good girl,” he muttered. He noted the flash of lust that crossed her face at the faint praise. He’d have to save that again for later. “You ready?” She nodded, and with that, he hoisted her other leg onto his shoulder, his face between her thighs as he held her suspended in the air, tethered to his hungry mouth.

It didn’t take much longer after that.

_I want to etch myself into your skin,_ he thought as her voice built to a steady crescendo. She was grinding his face shamelessly, getting herself off, and he fucking loved it.

Then, without warning, her thighs clenched, the muscles taut and tight, and he knew that she was gone.

She came with a rush and a violence that took his breath away. She was a glorious thing to behold, her face frozen in a tableau of pleasure, arms gripping the rails as she glistened in the light and shook from the sheer force of her orgasm. She came loudly, screaming his name and _fuckfuckfuck_ punctuating each crest and wave that racked her body. When it was over, he smirked against her thigh, as satisfied and sated as she was.

He lowered her gently onto the floor. He felt as though she might liquify the moment her feet touched the ground - so soft and languid was she in his arms. But he was surprised when her eyes took on a steely, determined resolve, and with her clothes and lingerie still half-hanging off her, she walked him backward and pushed him up against the opposite wall of the elevator.

The clink of metal hitting buckle reverberated in the small space as Betty roughly undid his belt. Suddenly, her hand was down his pants and grasping his shaft and quickly, all too quickly, it was _her_ turn to smirk as he groaned and slumped back against the elevator wall. She leaned in to suck at the base of his neck, scraping teeth against his skin, and he was _lost_ , so lost, until--

_BEEP._

They froze. Betty’s half-lidded eyes flew open. They met Jughead’s startled gaze.

“Mr. Jones, is everything okay in there?”

The crackly voice over the intercom was such a bizarre intrusion into the heat of the moment that they had to laugh, albeit quietly. Jughead pulled Betty tight against him, silencing her giggles, before reaching over behind her to press the phone button. “Uh, yeah,” he said, adjusting himself. “We’re good.”

“You pressed the emergency stop - do you need us to send for external help? Emergency services, 911?”

Betty’s eyes widened and gestured wildly over her sticky, half-naked body. “ _No_! I mean… no.” Jughead shook his head. He held his hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. “If you could just, uh, take us up to the room, that would be appreciated.”

“Alright, sir.”

The elevator started back up again with a jolt, and the two of them burst out into breathless laughter, Betty clinging on to Jughead for support. In that freeing moment - the two of them messy and half-naked and reveling in the absurdity of the situation - he felt their days stretching out beyond the heat of the night. They would laugh together, eat together, read together in the days to come. Tonight, and in the nights that would follow, he could see them learning high schools and first cars and favourite songs and favourite colours.

But for now —

The elevator opened to the familiar muted greys of the TriBeCa, and after stepping out, the doors closing behind them, they surveyed the space before them: the site of their first meeting, their unconventional wooing and now, their intimacy.

_Well, maybe not intimacy,_ Jughead thought, as he turned to Betty, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear. _We’ve already had that_.

Betty smiled up at him. “So. Can I stay here tonight?” she asked.

She used a tone that Jughead knew she’d intended to be teasing, but still - underneath it all - he heard her reluctance and doubt. Suddenly, he remembered that only hours before, they’d thought that they were lost to each other. And in himself, he recognised the need to know some form of permanence.

He kissed her - tenderly this time, none of the urgent roughness with which he’d consumed her in the elevator, tasting her as she tasted herself on his tongue. It was a searching, quietly sensual kiss, and it lingered longer than he anticipated, and that was nice because it meant they had all the time in the world. He picked her up and held her tightly against him, and as her legs wrapped around his waist, he whispered to her, “You know you can stay longer.”

Betty inhaled sharply as he kissed her neck. “How long?”

“Forever,” he said, walking her in the direction of the bedroom. “Stay forever.”

…

By the time Jughead laid her down gently on the huge, white-sheeted bed in the master bedroom, Betty had managed to discard all of her clothing, and in the amber, half-lidded lamplight, she watched as he took in her naked form.

“Jesus, Betty,” he murmured as he looked her over. His own shirt came off, which he discarded to the floor.

_Well,_ Betty thought, her own gaze possessive as she feasted her eyes upon the muscular lines of his torso and - as he undressed completely - the full unsheathing of his hard arousal. _You, too._

Pure attraction aside, she was reeling. The molten physicality between them was nothing to the hot tumult of emotions that were coursing through her. He had completely obliterated her in the elevator, and she could have sworn that her orgasm was still alive and tingling like a tiny bud inside of her.

But beyond that, her heart couldn’t stop thudding against her ribs, and the lump in her throat was growing now as things slowed down and she was able to catch a breath.

_I thought you were gone,_ she thought as Jughead crawled over her body, covering it with his. Tenderly, she threaded her fingers through his thick dark hair as he bent down to kiss her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. How could it be that she’d only know this man for four days? How could it be that she felt so connected to him, so deeply interwoven into who he was?

“ _Oh!_ Oh, god,” she moaned, all thoughts buried momentarily as Jughead sucked harshly on her nipple, the lack of a barrier allowing her to feel the full warmth of his mouth. Her back arched up off the bed, and he used that as an opportunity to loop his arm underneath her, holding her tightly. She could feel his arousal grazing her inner thigh, and that seemed natural and okay, and perfectly _right._

Suddenly she felt the need to feel him, too - and for him to feel just what _he_ was doing to _her_. She rolled them over so she was right above him, and she whispered, “Sit back.” Jughead looked intrigued as he pushed up against the bed and leaned against the headboard. Slowly, she crawled up so that she was right above him, and straddled his cock - not quite taking him in, but sliding up and down, her heat meeting his pulsating need, her warm honey coating the warm hardness of him.

“You feel that?” she murmured, her voice high on lust. “That’s you. That’s all for you.”

“Fucking _hell_ , Betty,” he groaned, and with both hands, he palmed her breasts, and though she’d forgotten how proud she once was of them - their size and heft and pertness - she remembered _now_. Because Jughead touched her reverently like she was a goddess worthy of devotion.

She, on the other hand, was riding him with abandon, feeling the build of desire within her again. It would be easy, she thought, to orgasm again, just doing this - pure friction on his hard length. She would have given in to that impulse, too, and she was on the verge of it until Jughead steadied her. “No,” he commanded. “None of that. Not yet.”

With one arm locking her still, he gripped the back of her neck, bringing her in for a rough, punishing kiss that she returned just as fervently. It was everything - passion and need, possession and want, fire in her veins and water for her thirst. And suddenly, it made her want more: she needed more than just movement and friction. She wanted rhythm and fullness - him inside of her. So she nodded, saying _yes_ to a question he’d been pleading silently.

They broke away from the kiss, now focusing on another point of contact. Betty placed one hand on his shoulder, the other guiding him in - gently, slowly. He was at the point of her entrance when - completely unbidden - their eyes flew open and locked in an intense gaze, seeing beyond shades of blue and green, seeing right into the very depths of the other. It wasn’t until Jughead reached up to brush at her cheek that Betty even realised she’d been crying. It had eked out of her without any warning. He didn’t ask _why,_ and that’s how she knew that he felt it, too - the sheer gravity of the moment, and the terror of having nearly lost it all.

But enough of that, and enough of the waiting.

She wanted to fall. She wanted to fly.

And so, with a hiss of breath, she bore down.

Jughead shouted her name as he pushed into her slick entrance; she threw her head back, hair flying wild as she took in the unadulterated pleasure of his hard length filling her up. His hand crept up, brushing her lips, and her mouth caught on his thumb, sucking it eagerly as they moved into one another and established a rhythm.

Betty should have been shocked at how naturally they moved together. A mirror paralleled their bed, and she watched their reflection - the languid tempo of their bodies, how beautiful he was, how beautiful _they_ were. Rocking together in a rhythm designed by biology and timed by chance, he brought his hands to her hips, pushing her down, grinding her harder onto his cock. A spasm sparked right through her. “Oh, I… like… like that,” she panted.

“Yeah?” he breathed out.

“God, yeah.”

“Say ‘please’ then” he said, with a half-grin she wanted to both slap and kiss right off his face.

But would it stop her from begging? “Fuck. Yes. Please, Jug.”

This wasn’t going to last much longer. She clenched her walls tightly around him and the headboard banged audibly against the wall as Jughead shot back, swearing his head off. “Betty, baby, _fuck_.”

“‘Baby’?” she asked, panting and amused, breaking for a moment.

“Shut up. That wasn’t the first time.” He clenched his eyes tight. “I’ll explain later.”

She giggled. He shook his head in warning. Pulled her into a kiss to remind her where she was. “Come on, stay with me,” he whispered harshly. And she knew what he meant.

Because the next few moments leading to the edge were a blur. They were seared into Betty’s memory as a series of sensations, and nothing more. The slap and pound of flesh against flesh. Beads of sweat licked clean off collarbones. The supple bounce of her breasts as they pressed up against his chest. The chorus of his voice and hers as they called each other’s name, yelled out strings of profanity. The satisfying smack of hand against ass when she asked for _harder, Jug, that’s it, harder._ The slick, messy rhythm of their bodies melding as one. Thrust and push and back and forth.

A quick moment of silence, and then--

Euphoria. Nirvana.

Betty’s mind was a landscape of pure white as Jughead jerked and spasmed beneath her, and she saw nothing and felt nothing and heard nothing but pure release emanating from her core to her limbs and her veins and _everywhere,_ to the point that almost had to wonder if the room remained the same shape, the same colour _._ Could the world really have remained so unchanged when _she_ felt every cell within her shift and transform in the wake of such rapture?

It took her a while to come down from that high, her orgasm racking her body twice, thrice over before she settled against Jughead’s chest, weakened but illuminated. If she had been conscious, she would have taken care to look at the mirror, to see the image of two lovers entwined, panting and exhausted, as though they had done this for years.

But all she could see was Jughead. His soul. Now one with hers.

…

She woke up to warmth. To arms bound around her and the now-familiar smell of pine and musk and laundry.

The low hum of an air conditioner echoed somewhere in the distance. Beneath her was spread a stretch of luxurious linen; between her legs, there bloomed a dull, delicious ache.

Jughead was nuzzling her nose with his. It tickled. “Hey,” he whispered. “You wanna take a shower?”

She giggled, eyes still shut. “Me and you?” she asked.

“Who else? Yeah, me and you.”

She smiled sleepily up at him. “Okay.”

He got up first, trailing kisses on her hip and the curve of her waist as he left the bed. Hearing the hiss of the water, Betty sat up and allowed herself a moment to survey what just happened - the rumpled sheets around her and her lingerie on the floor.

_Jughead and I just made love._

“Holy _shit,_ ” she whispered incredulously to the ceiling. She sighed, then clamped a hand over her mouth as she felt a trill run through her, for fear that she might scream or laugh out loud from pure joy. Only hours before, she had been sitting heartbroken in the Fiction section of the New York Public Library. Here she was now: in a bed that began as a mere assignment, irrevocably in love with the man she thought would be her client.

Flashes of their encounter blitzed through her mind. The sheer hunger between the two of them took her breath away. It had been fast, _so fast_ between them, but also such a sweet, slow simmer.

Gingerly, she stepped out of the sheets and looked around for her dress. _Clothes_. She needed extra clothes. Veronica had a key to her place. Fishing her phone out of the dress pocket, she took great pleasure in drafting out a cryptic text to her best friend. _Long story, but I need some clothes from my place. Delivered to the Greenwich Hotel._ She smiled as she hit ‘send’, then made her way into the bathroom to join Jughead in the shower.

The steam billowed all around the space so that she could barely see, steam suffusing her lungs as soon as she stepped in. The bathroom was dim, its walls a dark stone set off by a few low lights and not much else. In the middle, encased by curved glass, was Jughead. He was facing away from her, his shoulders hunched, head down, one arm resting against the wall in front of him as the water ran rivulets over his body.

Betty leaned against the doorframe, openly watching his naked figure, learning his body. Their romp in the bedroom had been far too swift for her to take in the full image of his frame, and as she did so now, she felt a familiar desire stir up within her. He was long and lean, muscular in ways that were not immediately obvious, though highlighted in the sharp shadows cast by the bathroom light. His shoulders were broad and strong. She thought, blushing, of the way he had hoisted her legs onto them in the elevator and the strength that came so easily to him. Finally, she saw the ripples of his back, and the long red scratch marks that adorned it - the memory of her nails digging in hard still fresh, still echoing the high-pitched shrieks she’d emitted in pleasure earlier.

What were they now to each other? Betty smiled to think of _this_ nakedness and how it came on the back of the many ways in which they’d already been naked to one another, and what they were to call each other in the days to come. ‘Boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend’ felt like such antiquated terms, and so _meagre_ when compared to the enormity of what they had gone through. But technically speaking, they had barely even dated. Did one lunch and a whole bunch of late nights count as dates?

Betty decided that they would just have to.

Jughead emitted an audible sigh as he increased the water pressure, running his hands through his wet hair. Betty could no longer resist. She walked in, sliding her arms from behind and around his waist, kissing his shoulder blades. She felt his back rippling with an instinctive flex, and bit softly at the skin there, tasting the water that ran down. Sighing, she traced the knobs of his spine with her mouth. _Mine,_ she whispered in her mind. _Mine, and mine._

“What are you doing?” he said, his head tilting towards her.

“Claiming my territory,” she teased.

He scoffed. “Pretty sure you did that on the first night.”

“I had you from then on, did I?”

But he was serious in reply. “Absolutely and irrevocably.”

Betty would delight in challenging that later on, but for now, she allowed it. She held him tighter against herself, her bare breasts slick on his back. She could feel desire arousing in her again, and without even looking over, she knew that Jughead was there, too. The silence between them expanded as they allowed the water to wash over them, like a cleansing of sorts. Maybe even a new beginning.

“This is... nice,” he murmured.

“It is.”

“You actually startled me earlier, though,” he said. “Wasn’t I obvious?”

“I did? And no, not at all.”

He laughed. “Good.”

She smiled against his skin. “How did I even startle you?”

“Oh, honestly, it was nothing,” he replied. “I’ll probably just get used to it eventually. It sounds stupid, but I keep forgetting I’m not alone.”

The water kept running, but Betty felt frozen to the spot. _I keep forgetting I’m not alone._ Suddenly she remembered a moment from two nights ago: Jughead coming home to her from his meeting, and the utter exhaustion that had stripped him bare as he laid his head on her lap. She couldn’t tell him at the time - of course she couldn’t - but in that moment she shifted from ruse to real, from intrigue to intimacy. She recognised now that she wanted him even then, that perhaps it was right there that she first fell in love.

And now, as they stood completely naked before each other, she needed him to know that he would always find her just as she was on that couch - ready and willing to soothe the loneliness away. She turned him around, cradling his face in her hands under the warm, constant stream of the shower.

“Jug,” she whispered. “I swear to you. You’ll never be alone again.”

And then she kissed him. And she lost herself in the kiss, clouded over in a fog of desperate want. Found herself kneeling on the wet ground before him before he could even say a word, water in her hair, water all over her body as she took him willingly into her mouth. Sucking and tasting the hard length of him, wanting him to know that she wanted this perhaps more than he did. That she was hungry for him in the same way that he hungered for her in the elevator.

“Betty,” he gasped as he tangled his fingers into her hair, slumped back against the glass of the shower doors. “Fuck. Don’t stop.”

She stared up at him from where she was on the ground, wanting him to know.

_I won’t._

…

Jughead watched the clock tick over to midnight as he lay on the couch outside the bedroom, utterly spent.

_Day number five,_ he thought.

It was true that his arrangement with Betty had long been over, and that the time for counting days was done. But there was still something fresh about having a Day 5, about starting a new day with her, one that neither of them had planned for and would never have to end.

He stared at the manuscript in his hand - a little worse for wear after being stuffed hastily into his blazer pocket. He knew that she’d been waiting to read it. It had been subsumed by the frenzied chemistry between them, but it had always been at the back of his mind. Truth be told, he had hoped that she’d forgotten, that he could go back and work on it a little bit more. But this girl was - after all - an investigative journalist. Of course she’d never miss a thing. While cleaning up after their extended romp in the shower, she’d smiled up at him and asked, out of the blue, “So... am I reading this thing later, or...?”

He played dumb, playfully streaking her face with shampoo suds. “Reading? Reading what?”

She poked him in the ribs. “Come on! You read _my_ letter without my permission.”

That _was_ true. But she was a News Editor for a highly respected online magazine. How bad could it have been?

His story, on the other hand...

He sighed, opening to the page where he had written it. The anxiety of being a writer - a real one this time - was made evident in the physical state of his manuscript. A few pages had been torn out before the story - drafts he wasn’t happy with, pages that had far too much scrawled out for anything to be legible. The final copy, he noted ironically, wasn’t much neater. After all, its last few paragraphs had been written at the back of a moving car on its way to the Flatiron District, right before he ran up to _Lilith_ headquarters.

Was he completely happy with it? He didn’t know, but he noted that this uncertainty was the kind that he liked. In any case, it was infinitely better than the dull reliability of a job he was languishing in. Writing without the anxiety of hiding his passion was all new to him, but that newness enthralled him at least, because it was happening in the wake of the whirlwind that was Betty Cooper. Besides, he now had the time to refine his work - he’d booked out the TriBeCa for another four night, and he planned on doing nothing in that time except for writing, editing and making love to her.

“Hey.”

Jughead looked up. Betty stood smiling a few paces away, her hair a little wet, clad only in - what else? His grey ‘S’ shirt.

“Hey,” he replied, smiling, motioning for her to come closer. She did, and he pulled her atop him until she was straddling him against the couch. He tugged gently at the shirt. “This looks familiar.”

She gave a coy little shrug. “Thought I’d take it back.”

“Wouldn’t look right on anyone else.”

She bent down to kiss him. He would never get sick of the myriad ways she kissed him - with passion, with tenderness, sometimes fast and loose, other times slow and deliberate. This one, however, was new; it was a swift, casual peck to the lips, like they’d been doing this for a long time. She nodded towards the manuscript in his hand. “Is this it?” she asked.

“I suppose so, yes.”

“Jug, if you really don’t want to--”

“No, no, I do,” he said, gently sliding her off him so that they sat side by side. “You gotta understand, though: I _am_ a little horrified at the thought of showing this to you, an actual published journalist.”

“Oh, but weren’t you going to show me in the Library?”

“Well, I _was_. But we kinda got... busy.” She blushed at that. “And the more I’ve thought about it, the more antsy I get. This is the first time I’ve ever shown my writing to anyone.”

“Really? Wow Jug. I’m... honoured.”

“Don’t feel so honoured yet. I have no idea if it’s any good.”

She gave him a stern look. “ _Jughead.”_

“I’m serious!” he said, laughing. “I’ve carried this thing around with me for a while now. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do - write. But I’ve never figured out if I was decent, and besides, I’d never gotten around to actually _doing_ it. That is, until you walked through there.” He gestured towards the elevator doors. “And I haven’t stopped since then. Do I know if I’m a good or bad writer? I genuinely don’t. But I haven’t stopped. And that feels like... it matters more. That it’s true.”

“It does,” Betty replied.  

“I’m just like you, Betty. I’m trying to write the truest thing I know, and I think I have. And that’s because it’s about _you_.”

She grinned and looked away from him, suddenly bashful.

“Look,” he said. “I’d do the corny thing here and say ‘thank you’, but that just seems trite. So I guess I’ll just... let you read it.”

“Actually, can you… can you read it to me?” she asked shyly, laying her head on his lap. He recognised the neat symmetry in the gesture - an exact mirror of their positions from two nights ago, except reversed. What a different man that he’d been then.

“Oh… sure. Of course.”

He made himself comfortable, resting against the couch, one hand keeping the pages open and the other resting on Betty’s stomach. He paused for a while as the words seemed to swim in front of him, but she touched his cheek, steadying him and bringing him back to earth.

“Hey, Jug? It’s okay. Take your time. I’ll be here. Okay?”

“Okay. Sorry.”

“And don’t apologise,” she said.

“Alright.”

He took a deep breath, and started reading.

...

**“the real”**

**by Jughead Jones**

_You wonder what she is when you first catch sight of her. An apparition conjured from your own loneliness? A muse sent to taunt your empty quill? A siren coaxing you to sail onto the rocks?_

_She is, apparently, none of these things._

_You watch her closely. She forms shadows upon your floor and you decide that she is not wholly immaterial; that there are threads of substance there in the flaxen strands of her hair and the greens of her eyes that instantly become the hue and colour of your wildest dreams._

_You reason that she could be mere spectrum. Perhaps she is light - both the brilliance of New York’s skyline and the soft glimmer of its dawn, peeking over the quiet steadiness of the Hudson._

_But then she touches you, and it is all heat and warmth, and you melt. You feel cynicism dissolve. You feel laughter emerging from the ashes. Perhaps she is more than light._

_Perhaps she is fire._

_A match struck, an inferno igniting, a passion renewed. New words seared into the blankness of a page and smoke and cinders in their wake._

_But the longer you touch, the more you wonder at the miracle that your hands don’t blister in the lick of her flames - that instead, her fingers feel like the cool rush of a river, soothing away exhaustion and the fears that have haunted you for so long, that you are not enough._

_And you go back to the drawing board._ No _, you say. She cannot be fire._

_Water, you concede. Perhaps she is water. Perhaps you would willingly drown in her._

_But then, the shadows change. For a brief moment, she flickers, and you imagine that she is gone._

_The ground beneath you gives way. And you reason that she might be earth. Or air. Because you are gasping for breath when the loss of her becomes a possibility._

_You step forward, wanting to take hold of her. But you find that are rooted to the spot. You look down, and you realise that_ she _is already holding you - that her hands have somehow found their way into yours._

_And wonder of wonders, they are hands of flesh. With blood pulsing underneath, and life coursing through her veins._

_When she embraces you, you feel the thrill of skin meeting skin. When she kisses you, you don’t taste empty magic or phantom promises, but the earthy sweetness of her mouth._

_Here it is that you finally learn the secret: that she is no mystery or apparition, neither light nor fire, nor water, earth or air._

_But utterly and completely real._

_And you are utterly and completely hers._

...

Betty lay on his lap, silent for a long time.

Jughead’s heart pounded more violently with each minute that passed. He stared straight ahead, feeling the weight of everything that had happened in _this_ room bear down upon him, as well as the absolute inadequacy of his words.

“It needs editing, I admit,” he stammered. “I think especially the part where… where...”

But Betty was sitting up. He stared at her - cheeks splotched with tears, lips trembling.

“Betty?”

Her lips moved. Three words. No sound.

But he didn’t need to hear them. And he understood why. Because there would come a time when they would both say it. Maybe in the coming days. Maybe next week. Maybe in a year.

He knew. That’s what counted.

And he felt it, too.

...

“What do you want to do tomorrow?” Betty asked later, in the dark of the room. It was two in the morning.

“Stay in here,” Jughead replied, kissing the bared skin of her stomach. “What else were we going to do?”

She giggled as she stared down, his unruly forelock grazing her navel. _What else, indeed._ She would gladly stay here with him. Write stories together. Write stories into each other.

But she also had other things in mind.

“We can also go out,” she said. “Get those bagels you liked. We _do_ have to eat.”

“Mmm. You have a point.” He yawned. “Sure, we can go out. Bagel place, maybe a bookstore. Any other places in mind?”

She smiled, and drew him up so they could lie down together - him holding her, until she could fall asleep.

“So many,” she murmured. “My places. Ours. All of them.”

 

_**fin.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is it to be naked? 
> 
> This is a cathartic, emotional chapter for Betty and Jughead - they finally see each other fully naked, and clearly relish the opportunity! Ahem. 
> 
> But I would argue that we’ve actually had nine chapters of seeing these two undress each other, so that that they were completely exposed to one another long before their intense lovemaking. So I hope this chapter felt like a real sense of release - not just for our babies, but for you as well, reader.
> 
> …
> 
> What’s that, you say? I added another chapter?
> 
> The story IS finished - don’t you worry about that. But there remains a loose thread that I would very much like to tighten in an epilogue. You could probably guess which one. Stay tuned.
> 
> …
> 
> Please do not try Jughead’s elevator trick. That five-minute mechanism was a total (convenient) invention!
> 
> …
> 
> I first posted this fic all the way back in November. It’s been more than four months! Four months for ten chapters feels like an awfully long time, but my god, you have been the most incredible and patient and LOVELY audience. I have truly enjoyed interacting with you, writing for you, watching you react. Sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, this chapter is my gift for you. I hope it was everything you wanted. I hope it made you soar with their emotions.
> 
> And lastly, my wish for you: I hope the story you are writing in your own life - whether of love, or freedom, or joy - is one that you are proud of.


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